Chapter Twenty-Eight

 

 

 

Michael Brother was two floors above the dining room in the exotic suite of chambers at the top of the tower that dominated the east wing.

 

"They belonged to my stepmother, Fuschia," Marie explained. "After her sad death, I took them over for myself. You like them?"

 

"Sure. When did your mother die?"

 

"Stepmother, Mickey. Fuschia wasn't my real mother. She died during the troubles when my father took power. Fuschia choked to death on a plate of strawberry jelly. Quite a mystery at the time, you know."

 

Michael was stretched out across the biggest bed he'd ever seen. Though he was stark naked, he wasn't feeling cold. A large fire of applewood crackled sweetly in the hearth.

 

A number of tall, slender vases of beaten silver stood around the rooms, all filled with wonderfully scented tapers. He remembered incense from his years at Nil-VanityRussian musk, summer lime, patchouli and sandalwood.

 

He felt wonderfully at ease. His limbs seemed slightly too heavy for his body, a thought that made him giggle to himself. He turned his head to admire the wondrous pattern on the coverlet, small squares of brightly colored satins and silks, sewn together into a pattern that seemed to draw the eye inward.

 

"More brandy?" Marie asked.

 

Michael blinked owlishly. The woman was sitting with her back to him, at the table where they'd just finished eating. She was wearing a loose robe, with a wildly complex embroidery of a fire-breathing dragon on it. Her long black hair shone with an unnatural luster. He wanted to go and brush it for her, with the ivory hairbrush with the handle carved like an erect male organ. Then he remembered that he already had brushed her hair for her. Before or after the meal.

 

"Before or after?" he whispered, puzzled that his voice was so quiet, as if his tongue had been removed and replaced with one that was slightly too large for his mouth.

 

From the back, Marie looked as though she were quite demurely dressed. But he could see her reflection in the long mahogany cheval mirror that stood against the far wall, to the left of the thick draperies.

 

The reflection wasn't demurely dressed.

 

Her breasts were uncovered, the nipples circled in a kind of soft red wax. Marie was sitting with her legs stretched out in front of her, slightly apart.

 

The teenager's slightly blurred eyes focused on the tops of her thighs. Her panties weren't like anything he'd ever seen before. They were a brilliant maroon color, with a silky sheen to them. But they were oddly split at the front, revealing bushy curls of jet-black hair.

 

He remembered that a novitiate at Nil-Vanity had once smuggled in a porno magazine, showing it around the dormitory after lights-out, by the dull gleam of a torch. It had naked or seminaked women, flaunting their bodies at the camera, touching themselves "down there" and actually using their own fingers to expose the pink inner lips. Most of the pix were such extreme close-ups that Michael had found it extremely difficult to work out what exactly he was peering at. He didn't want to have to face the mockery of his peers, so he pretended excitement. The real truth was he could have been looking at a plate of raw steak for all it meant to him.

 

But this was so different.

 

Marie Mandeville was also wearing long boots, loose above the knee and tight below. They were of immaculate white kid, with tapering heels of silvered steel, cast in the same shape as the handle of the ivory hairbrush.

 

She was singing quietly to herself, and caught him looking at her in the mirror, smiling at him. The woman stuck out the tip of her scarlet tongue and ran it slowly between her lips, opening her legs a little wider, allowing her hand to trail down over the maroon silk.

 

Michael knew that he was caught, helplessly trapped. Emotions raced through his body in a way that he'd never experienced before. Even in his wildest, midnight-moist dreams, he had never imagined such sexual power. Whatever this goddess required of him, he would have to do it.

 

"You like what you see, Mickey?" Her voice was low and breathy. "Tell me."

 

"Very much." The prominent state of his body's response would have made a lie quite grotesque.

 

"I have an idea, dear boy."

 

"What?"

 

"I'll come and join you on the bed and while we take some pleasure we can watch some vids."

 

"Vids? Old predarkies?"

 

"Goodness, no. Though goodness doesn't have much to do with these vids. Nathan has such wealth and power he can obtain everything. He bought one of the tiny number of working vid cams in Deathlands and some cassies to go with it. These are new and very exclusive vids that have only been seen by a special few close friends."

 

"Were those squawking parrots who were with you in the forest such friends?"

 

Marie stood, stretching her shoulders back, lifting her breasts. "Now and again, when I'm bored. But they are not 'special' like you are, Mickey. When the others are gone, you will remain here and save me from being bored."

 

Her words slithered through the cramped corridors of his mind, but didn't quite make sense.

 

"When the other are gone? Which others?"

 

"The one-eye and the red-hair and the others. They'll very soon be gone, but I can keep you safe."

 

She drained a goblet of pink crystal that had been a third filled with the fiery brandy. A small part of Michael's mind realized that he had become dangerously drunk. And so had Mistress Marie.

 

"Safe? Don't"

 

She sat on the bed, crossing the legs in a whisper of leather. "Don't worry, child. Would you like something else to eat before we watch the vids?"

 

Part of Michael's mind wanted to pursue her odd, lateral comments. Ryan was going? And the others? But he would stay. Where would they go? The idea that he could stay forever in this languorous bedchamber with this amazing woman seemed like a glimpse of a profane paradise.

 

She reached out a long-nailed hand and gripped his erection, making him gasp. The sensation was so powerful that he was frightened for a moment that he would suddenly come all over her fingers and the silk coverlet.

 

"Do you need more food, I said."

 

"Oh, no. It was wonderful."

 

Though the truth was he hadn't much cared for some of the weird specialties she kept pressing on him. Oysters were slippery and cold, though he liked the way Marie threw back her head, mouth wide open, and gulped the oysters down, leaving a tantalizing thread of clear, sticky liquid dangling from her parted lips.

 

The fish eggs were bitter and salty, though she had boasted about their cost and rarity. But the steak, underdone, with creamed potatoes and garlic had been fine. So had the fluffy apricots, whipped up with cream and some kind of liqueur.

 

And the wines!

 

So many, some sweet and some dry. Some chilled and some at the temperature of the warm room. One of them had been delicious, fizzy and sharp. The heavy bottle had popped and foamed when Marie thumbed open the cork.

 

Her hand was still on him, squeezing hard, harder than Michael wanted, but he didn't protest.

 

"Go and turn off the lights, Mickey," she said. "Then press the white button on the table at the top of the bed."

 

"Sure."

 

"But first, a little kissing."

 

"Yeah." He leaned toward her smooth face, starting to close his eyes in anticipation.

 

"Not on the mouth, sweet one. Not yet. A kiss for the toe of each of my boots. Show you'll do what I tell you. Then a kiss on each knee. Then a long slow kiss just here ." Her other hand slid between her thighs.

 

Michael nodded, though this wasn't turning out like he'd expected. He slid down off the bed, kneeling on the floor, taking her foot in his hand and kissing the soft leather, savoring the animal scent. He repeated the procedure on the other foot, then on the inside of each knee.

 

Her hands were on top of his head, locked in his hair, pulling him closer and higher, tugging his face into her body. His tongue, hesitant, flicked out, tasting her musky flavor, the mat of dark hair tickling his cheeks. Marie clamped her powerful thighs tight around his head, blotting out all sound, making it hard for the youth to breathe.

 

Seconds, or minutes, or hours later, the woman pushed him violently away from her, so that he sprawled on his back on the thick carpet. Her pale face was flushed, and her dark eyes narrowed as she looked down at him.

 

"That was exquisite, Mickey," she whispered. "So gentle and so pleasing. Later we can But first the vids."

 

He rose clumsily and turned off the lights, so that only the glow of the fire illuminated the bedroom. He climbed back on the bed, finger poised over the button, hesitating.

 

"What is it?" A distinct touch of sharpness tinged her voice. "Do it."

 

"What did you mean about the others going, Marie?"

 

"Oh, nothing. Just my silly tongue running away. Just like your lovely tongue nearly ran away with me just now. All you need to think about is you being safe because I'll protect you."

 

Somehow, through the muddling effects of the mixture of alcoholic drinks, the teenager wondered how it could be, that if he was to be safe, then it seemed that it must logically follow that Ryan and the others might be in danger. It didn't make any sort of sense.

 

But now Marie Mandeville had wriggled her way up the enormous bed toward him. Her mouth was hot and deep and nothing else mattered. At one point Michael asked whether he'd be going back to his own room before the night was out. Marie smiled and said that he would go when she allowed him to go. He mentioned the worry of the patrolling sec guards. But she smiled again and patted his cheek, explaining patiently that her orders had cleared the corridors between her suite and the rooms of the visiting outlanders.

 

 

 

HE FOUND IT amazingly difficult to concentrate on the flickering vids projected onto a small white panel close to the fireplace.

 

The quality wasn't good, with the focus often blurring and the lighting inconsistent.

 

But it wasn't hard to see what the subject matter was of the films.

 

Michael wasn't able to watch all of them.

 

Some of the time he was being forced into repeating the performance from earlier in the evening, beginning with Marie's boots. With the added refinement of sucking the perverted shape of the heels.

 

Some of the time he was on the bed, flat on his back while the older woman straddled him, riding him as though he were a favored Thoroughbred stallion. She'd leaned forward to kiss him on the lips, biting at his neck so hard that she drew worms of blood, using her long, painted nails to scratch crimson weals over his chest and stomach.

 

And all of it was wonderful.

 

At one point she'd taken a tiny, beak-bladed knife and used it to cut up a fine white powder across an ornamental mirror shaped like a rose, forming it into narrow lines that she ordered him to sniff up through a tiny golden tube. Michael suspected that it must be what he'd heard Ryan and J.B. talk about as jolt, the common drug of choice in Deathlands.

 

But it was also wonderful. The jolt rushed through his brain and body, seeking out his extremities, making fingers and toes thrill and tingle. Though he'd already come three times into various secret places of Marie's voraciously lean body, the drug brought him again to a powerful erection, making the teenager feel that he could go on making love forever.

 

And ever.

 

After the fourth time, she finally seemed sated, lying back with her head on the pillow, the wondrous tempest of raven hair spread out around her.

 

And they watched the vids, endless combinations of men and women and boys and girls, some of them looking barely into their teens, a factor that made Michael begin to feel uneasy stirrings of concern about what was happening.

 

But the mixture of sex, drugs and drink still cloaked his conscience.

 

The couplings were limitless.

 

A masked woman, wrists and ankles tied to the corners of a bed, was being pleasured by five men at once, three of the men also being simultaneously penetrated by younger women with artificial strap-on penises.

 

"Isn't it the most wonderful thing to do?" Marie whispered. "To have power. Total power. To compel others to do anything ." The last word was drawn out forever.

 

She crawled down Michael's abused body, making him wince at the contact, as some of his scratches and bites were becoming painful. She touched him, giggling at his readiness. But the ornate silver human-eye ring that she wore scraped at his tender flesh, and he winced and cried out.

 

"Sorry, Mickey," she said, smiling at him, teeth white in the gloom. "But you mustn't pull away from me. Not ever, or I'll get angry and you wouldn't like that at all!" She squeezed his genitals so brutally that he nearly passed out. "Perhaps I should chain you up, dear little boy. We'll see about that later. But now I feel hungry again."

 

While she used her mouth on him, Michael stared blankly at the white rectangle on the far wall, hardly noticing what was going on.

 

Every possible perversion was there, including abuses of animals that disgusted him. For the first time he felt his penis beginning to lose its diamond strength. She felt it too, pushing her right hand between his spread thighs and using her index finger to keep him roused.

 

"Don't lose it now, or you might lose it forever," she whispered, looking up at him from between his legs, her eyes half-closed, lips swollen, looking, suddenly, much older.

 

He stared at the vid again, trying to concentrate on arousal, despite the growing nausea that he could feel seeding itself in the pit of his stomach. It was a dark room, with walls built from rough stone slabs. The only light came from a fire in the hearth, and the only furniture was a table with iron shackles at each corner. A youth was led into the room by two hooded sec men in the distinctive maroon livery of Baron Mandeville. A third person walked behind them, also hooded, slighter built. The youth's bright blue eyes were wide with terror. Unlike some of the earlier sections of the porno vids, this one had no sound.

 

The victim wore a long gown of white linen, fringed with yellowing lace. It was stripped off him and he was quickly placed on the table and tied there, his ribs strained with the effort of each frightened breath.

 

Michael felt the sickness rising.

 

There was a cut in the vid, jagged white lines, then the picture resumed. During the period of blackness, the youth had been brutally beaten. Bruises discolored his cheeks, and blood seeped from his mouth. He was crying.

 

The two sec men seemed to have vanished, but the third hooded and gloved figure was there, leaning over the stained table, hands pinching and slapping.

 

Michael tried to speak, but his throat was dry. Below, he was conscious of the woman making slurping noises that reminded him of a pig feeding in a trough. He knew he was going to be sick very soon, but he was afraid of Marie's anger.

 

Another cut, the vid camera repositioned so it concentrated on the youth's lower torso. One glove had been removed and the light from the fire sparkled on a ring on one finger, but it was too out of focus to see clearly. The hand was holding a knife, its blade less than three inches long, with a hilt of mother of pearl, inset with beads of lapis lazuli.

 

Gloved fingers touched the spot at the apex of the thighs and the knife moved nearer.

 

The hand. Ring. Human eye, set in silver.

 

Then blood splattered the lens.

 

Mouth, laughing in dreadful close-up.

 

Michael punched out, catching the woman across the cheek, vomiting his entire meal into her upturned face.

 

"Sick fucking bitch!" he screamed, his voice cracking in his horror, horror of what she was and horror of what he'd done with her.

 

Barely pausing to snatch his clothes, the weeping teenager raced from the bedroom, Marie's voice following him down the corridor outside.

 

"You're dead, prick! Dead with all the other outland fuckers. All dead!"