Chapter 30
Penelope disrobed and lay on the stone altar. Cold which had previously sucked on her like a tick now caressed her and made her shiver with pleasure. The hooded cultists removed their clothes too, men and women, child and adult. Some were inhuman as she’d expected, expanding and pouring out of their clothes like bubbles blown through cloth hoops. Once naked, they sang and chanted and touched one another, reaching hands and claws and four foot tongues down to begin their orgy. To begin their ritual. To begin inducting Penelope into their order.
Her decision made, she was still nervous, a sick fear that roiled even as her physical joy increased. The climax she had been threatened with before now built within her brick by fleshy brick. This time, Penelope embraced it. Her nervous, inexperienced hands explored her flesh as they had only once before; even these fumbles were whips to the slaves building a perfect temple of pleasures.
The chanting rose, a great and wonderful drone that surged through her again and again. Her hands found the rhythm of the ritual and aped it, driving her closer and closer. Through half-closed eyes she saw lights like multicoloured angels flaring around her, circling and dipping on invisible wings. The air tasted like ripe oranges.
Penelope’s life, her very existence, became a rapture, a palpitating joy that soaked through every inch of her. All she’d had to do was give in to That Which Sins to experience this but her horrible and restrictive morals had held her back from this wonder. More brilliant joy poured through her. By That Which Sins, Eleanor had been right; Penelope could never consider going back to being a mundane and weak flower growing in a pale batch of moonlight under the yoke of the Christian god.
And then she reached the point of no return, the great explosion. Every part of her shuddered and juddered and jived as she drove herself to the edge. There was no stopping it, her senses were a stampede and they ran over the cliff of an amazing burst of the greatest and most wonderful sensation she had ever experienced.
This, she managed to think, was a real heaven.
The climax passed and left her numb. She could feel nothing of her body or her mind. The lights danced around her, leaving sparkling trails that dropped onto her skin. She watched the cultists chant at her but paid them no mind.
Her other senses reluctantly returned. The scent of oranges assailed her first but they were now rotten, horrible things from a damp cellar. Penelope tried to gag, the stink so bad she could taste it, but her body wouldn’t respond; all she could do was feel more and more sick at the mulched sourness on her tongue.
Then the cultists’ chanting changed, becoming a deep, sonorous dirge. Penelope could not understand the words but she could tell the intent behind them, the desire to inflict something cruel and horrible onto her. Atop feeling sick, she panicked and felt herself try to hyperventilate. But she couldn’t move, couldn’t even lift her head to see what was happening to her.
A grinding pleasure, something as dutiful as it was enjoyable, began to fill her. Her fingertips became less numb and she felt them dancing across her body, some twisting and playing with parts of her and others delving deep into her orifices. But they were doing so of their own accord, without her command. Again she wanted to panic and again she was not allowed to.
Penelope had become a prisoner in her own body.
The binding bliss circled her mind like a snake and blurred her vision, dulled the chants to a deep monotone. At least it also stole away the stench of rotten fruit but that was small comfort.
Had she done the right thing in agreeing to this ritual? The initial pleasure had been a joy, a revelation of the hidden wonders in her flesh, but this new experience frightened her. Was this really how all believers were initiated into That Which Sins’ ranks? She hadn’t thought to question it at the time – she’d heard so many orgies during her incarceration that she’d thought them commonplace – but now she wished she had.
“Relax,” something whispered. Its voice was oily and sweet. “Everything is okay.”
For a moment, she believed it. Then she felt a pain in an indefinable place, not physical but very real, as though the pleasure surrounding her senses had pierced her essence like a scorpion or a cactus.
“This will be quick,” the voice said. “Then you will be mine.”
Penelope felt cold. The voice belonged to That Which Sins. It was not the voice of something which loved her. It wasn’t even the voice of something that wanted her to be free. No, the voice she heard belonged to something which rolled in excess and waste and loved bringing others in to join it.
And she had given herself to it. Willingly.
Her thoughts crackled like fat as something spread through them, a bullet ricocheting around within her mind. She wanted to scream but the pleasure muffled her. Penelope tried to understand what had happened but the pleasure stopped her thinking by cracking a barbed whip across her psyche. Two more of the mind bullets fired into her, creating a cacophony, a raging whirlwind of vicious impacts.
Penelope was swallowed by sensations she couldn’t process; lights and sounds and climaxes and raging, hissing agony. It was too much, more straining and stressful than Mahrey’s torture. She could not think. She could do nothing, robbed of both her body and her mind.
It took her a moment to realise when it was all taken away; she was so scrambled by the combined assaults that her mind reeled even more in their absence. It was the sight of a harsh-looking Indian woman looming over her with grave concern that shocked her back to something resembling normality. Perhaps because it was so clear, a crisp vision from another life.
The Indian tightly gripped Penelope’s wrists, held her hands away from her body. Penelope’s fingers still danced away even though they touched nothing, little wriggling traitors.
“Who are you?” Penelope croaked. Then she sobbed with delight at being able to talk. Her throat felt bloody but she was glad of the sensation because it was real, normal.
“A friend,” the Indian said.
“Are you here to rescue me?”
The Indian looked over her shoulder and said “We’ll see.”
Penelope tried to follow what the woman was looking at but she couldn’t move her neck yet.
“Do you want to be rescued?” the Indian asked.
She almost scoffed but that was a good question; Penelope had voluntarily lay on the altar, had chosen to deny one god and accept another. It wasn’t a given that she would want to be rescued; her new-found belief could be solid enough that she would rather die than return with this rescuer.
Penelope had to decide what she wanted to happen. That Which Sins had at least been active in her life, had tested and taken pity on Penelope and given her an insight into the pleasure locked within her body… but it had black designs for her and its presence felt… evil. And she didn’t trust the ritual her cult had started; just considering the encompassing pleasure and its needles made her nervous shakes rise up.
That could just be the trauma of the new. Medieval Christians whipped themselves for their sins and anyone unfamiliar with self-flagellation would be shocked the first time they saw it. Trauma was probably the right word after days of physical and psychological torture, sleep deprivation and the shaming and the cold.
Penelope sighed, suddenly tired by thinking of the last few days. It would be best if she took some time and considered her options, and not just for her religious choices. It could be that she returned to That Which Sins without coercion but she wanted to talk things through with her family first.
Family… her family… Her Mama! Her poor Mama. In all the chaos and the horror, she’d forgotten about her Mama’s death, about her father sitting in a vast home with only servants for company. That image sealed it. Penelope had missed her Mama’s funeral but she would not miss supporting her father through his mourning or allow the great Chalmers family to fall into disrepair without a woman’s touch.
Religious matters could wait; this was family.
She licked her dry lips and was about to ask the Indian to save her when the crushing pleasure heaved again, overpowering her senses. Bright colours, repeated explosions and the strong smell of sweat wrapped around her and would not let her speak.
“You are mine,” said the slick voice. “I will not let you go.”
For a moment its grip tightened further and a dozen mind bullets fired into her, a dozen furious feet kicking her every thought. Penelope closed her eyes to concentrate on not-thinking and would have screamed if she had her tongue.
A warm weight pressed on her chest and the pain subsided, retreating even further than before. Coarse fur tickled her naked breasts and hot breath baked her shoulder.
When she opened her eyes, she was confronted with a great blue and black wolf. It was the strangest thing she’d seen; so odd it made her laugh. Then she laughed at her ability to laugh. The Indian woman held Penelope’s hands against the altar, her broad muscles fully tensed to restrain them. Sweat beaded on the warrior’s brow and she seemed to look through Penelope. As did the wolf, now she thought about it.
“What is that?” she asked of the creature.
The Indian’s face flinched but she would not be shifted from whatever she concentrated on. Tattoos throbbed across her skin and the scarred flesh that sprouted beneath them pulsed; this was a warrior, a fighter as well as a magician. Penelope supposed her magic was holding That Which Sins back. That she could achieve this at all was impressive
“The Indians know more than we thought,” she said, just enjoying speaking.
They remained that way for some time, silent and struggling, until the warrior looked up sharply. She moved her mouth as if talking but made no sound. At first, addled as she was, Penelope thought she was casting a silent spell. Then she felt the movement of something happening out of eyeshot, perhaps the Wanted Man fighting the dark man. Penelope simply couldn’t hear it or the warrior’s speech.
“Great,” she whispered. “I’m deaf.”
The warrior did not respond.
Penelope’s hands tried to free themselves, take advantage of the warrior’s distraction. The warrior was quick enough to keep them restrained. She tightened her grip and looked down at Penelope, concentrated on stymieing the god’s advance.
Being tended over made Penelope think of Nanny, a wonderful Dutch woman whose accent had been as heavy as her great bosom. She’d had a great batch of curly red hair and used to sing Dutch nursery rhymes when Penelope was ill. Briefly, she wondered what this Indian would sound like if she sang to her. If Indians even had nursery rhymes; they could just have war chants or day-long poems for all Penelope knew.
The wolf’s blue darkened, becoming the same shade as a deep ocean trench and the warrior’s tattoos pulsed slower and slower; they were losing the fight. This couldn’t be a permanent strategy then, they had to be waiting on something that would pull her from That Which Sins’ influence.
Or maybe she was being optimistic; they might read her last rites then finish her off, the taint being irreversible.
“Please, fight it,” Penelope said. Her voice didn’t feel strong. No part of her did.
The pleasure crept in more and more as woman and wolf struggled, gradually brightening Penelope’s world and grating her with cruel bliss. The warrior’s will was reaching an end; in a battle between a god who had terrorised America for centuries and one person, there was only going to be one winner.
Whatever they were waiting for had better come soon…
The Indian blurred as the pleasure circled Penelope again but she could see the warrior’s mouth move in speech if not her expression. Then someone else stood over the allowed, a tall figure with broad shoulders that slumped slightly. They made no move against the Indian and so were probably with her.
This new figure put his hands on Penelope’s stomach. She could feel them through the pleasure, rough wedges of skin as warm as a fresh meal. The feeling calmed her; if they could overcome That Which Sins, transmit such a wonderful and simple feeling, they knew what they were doing.
It had to be the Wanted Man, her Papa’s savior. Penelope smiled, sure she would be okay.
Heat radiated from his hands and drew the cruel pleasure into them; more feeling returned, the dull ache of flesh wounds and scratches and sinister cold. Then she could feel her hips. She tried tensing her upper thighs and they tightened; she had control of herself as well.
Inevitably, the pleasure fought back just as she enjoyed her freedom. Her hands and feet were crushed by some unseen hand. She screamed in a silent world and could feel her agony vibrating through the altar, a horrible pain unlike anything she had ever felt. Then her ankles and her wrists were smashed, doubling her torture.
But the fightback wasn’t done there; the pleasure grated across her, furious, and sliced her skin with tiny knives before adding to the wounds.
“She is mine!” the oily voice screeched.
“No,” another voice whispered, a strange one with no sex or feeling, “she is her own.”
Two wills clashed, parted oceans that would not be separated again. One was a great white force and the other a dark, roiling mass. They pushed against one another with the strength of Titans, of warring angels. Her body was the battleground; warmth and frantic torture passed up and down her legs as they surged and resurged. With sharp breathing, Penelope copied with the pain, observed this war with the understanding of a puppy seeing gentlemen duel.
But, as she watched, she felt the vagaries and mores of the combat and realised she was not the battleground but the nexus, the door through which the two forces fought. The Wanted Man was the epicenter of the white force this side of the door; his presence was a bright light which illuminated a great… realm, land, sphere, she could not know what, beyond the door.
That Which Sins was greater than the white force by far, a cruel and seemingly endless being that filled its sphere entirely, but its passage into the world was stunted by the door. And somehow Penelope instinctively knew her struggles had narrowed it further.
“No. Stop this. I am my own,” Penelope thought.
That Which Sins’ doorway narrowed in response. Penelope would have laughed if she could. She still had a choice, a say in the fight; she had not yet given herself over. And she chose to be her own.
That denial squeezed the door shut. The oily voice screamed but was cut off, wounded, leaving the god’s dwindling influence stuck in Penelope.
If That Which Sins couldn’t have her prize, she would destroy it in the process; the god’s magic presence broke from the fight and crushed Penelope’s ribs, knees and skull. Though Penelope could see this was impossible her body disagreed and she could barely breathe for the overpowering agony.
The Indian warrior was knocked back by a riposte from That Which Sins, her will finally breaking. Penelope’s treacherous hands threw the black and blue wolf to the floor. Her fingers twitched and twisted before going after the Wanted Man, trying to rip his flesh apart.
The punishment escalated further without the warrior; serrated ice blades were driven in and out of her and warm acid was pumped into every orifice. In her mind, Penelope shrieked and shrieked. She begged with faltering breath for the Wanted Man to stop, to give her over to the bitch god if she wanted Penelope so badly. But Penelope had made her decision already and this pain was the price of freedom. She had held on for days in a shivering place of horror and she would have to cope with a few minutes more to be rid of what she’d inflicted on herself.
“Fucking arse. Damn-fucking Hell-arse fucks,” she said. Swearing helped, even if her repertoire was limited.
More of Penelope’s body was freed from the god’s control, revealing dozens of self-inflicted wounds. Freedom reached her upper arms and she pulled her vicious hands away from the Wanted Man, gave him some respite from the clawing. Her vision focussed slightly and she saw great lumps of flesh beneath her remaining nails, blood dripping down her fingers. To maintain a battle of wills with a god whilst his flesh was being torn from him… she was shocked out of her pain, such was her awe of him.
Soon she felt those horrible lumps of the Wanted Man’s flesh under her fingernails and the dull pain from the nails she’d lost. Her head and ribs popped out, felt round and unimpacted, and her senses sharpened. Her hands and feet twitched and were healed. Sounds even returned to her. She was back to normal.
“Thank you,” she whispered.
Her savior smiled then collapsed, falling like a puppet whose strings had been cut. There was a thud as his chin cracked the altar before he landed in a crumpled pile.
Penelope rolled over. She recognised him as the strong-looking man she’d seen in the corridor, though most of his clothes had been burned away to reveal a horribly scarred form. By his feet was a comically large gun that could only be Noose. It was the Wanted Man, as she’d hoped. And he was out for the count.
Penelope sat up, looked to the Indian warrior and her strange wolf. “Is he okay?”
The warrior stood on her tiptoes and examined him. “Probably.”
“Should we help him?”
She nodded. “Probably.”
Penelope swung her legs off the altar and her cuts and bruises sang out. She winced but got to her feet, stood free of gods or compulsions. She was her own person, changed and freed, though not in the way That Which Sins had hoped. It was a terrifying and wonderful prospect. And the first thing she did was kneel to help the Wanted Man.