Initiation

{A rasp of flint and the flame hisses to life, licking fire over the end of the blunt, the red smoke loosening my body on the first deep inhale, fragrant spices hitting my nostrils and settling around me in a haze of drugging smoke, a lazy palm scrubbing over the stubble shadowing the hard line of my goatee'd jaw, the weight of glazed diamond eyes falling on the female before me, contemplating what I was going do with her..to her. The ritual singing and incense wafting by the legion of statuesque Chosen gave me the scratch. Frigid. Only way to describe the Other Side. Despite the surreal climate control. The white on whiter, immaculate perfection of everything enough to freeze your insides to a block of ice. Place was a physical extension of the Scribe Virgin herself. Cold, rigid perfection.  And I guess that made me a chip off the old ice block. Damn miracle the Chosen weren't driven insane centuries ago by the uniformity of it all... if the place had walls they were probably padded ones. Even the incessant, twittering birdsong set my teeth on edge. Yup, definitely not in Kansas anymore, true. Thank fuck I had the smarts to tank up on Goose before the bowing and vowing pajama party kicked off, intoxication taking the edge off enough to pull a Nancy and get the damn thing over with. The moment the ceremonial show and tell was dispensed with, I'd escaped, here, to the privacy of the Primale's Temple and now the hooded Chosen, my 'intended', was being guided to stand before me, the gossamer thin sheath covering her body leaving absolutely nothing to the imagination... like a flame caressing a dripping block of ice, no red blooded male could help but respond... she, and every one of her submissive sisterhood, the embodiment of nubile, feminine perfection...made flesh...the sultry spices of the ritualistic incense doing nothing to mask the waves of fear rolling off the draped, female figure, her knee-trembler routine setting up a shimmy in the thin fabric that pools at her feet...and I would be a bare faced fucking liar if I said that tremulous fear didn't....stimulate me. A dull throb pulsing through the roots of slowly elongating fangs, that lick of fear stroking my arousal to a thick, heavy shaft in my Hugh Hefner silks, words spoken in a gravelled smoky command} What is your name?... <<Chosen...my name is Chosen>> {the words come out on a breathless whisper, quavering through the white silk fabric} Here's the deal, Chosen.. you're going to relax for me, true. I'm going to help you relax {gloved hand slipping beneath the hood, the pad of my thumb seeking out the erratic hummingbird flutter of the female's startled pulse, working pressure in slow, hypnotic circles...with every hitching breath she draws, the thin silk fabric of the hood is sucked against her mouth, shaping her parted lips...the tip of the blunt flaring bright as I drag the red smoke into my mouth, head dipping, goatee'd lips pressed to the silk outline of the Chosen's lips, breathing out a long exhale, feeding her the red smoke, filtering it through the thin fabric of the hood, a Shotgun of mouth to mouth relaxation, true...the female's body begins to sway, loosening up, the meek voice becoming trance-like, the breathlessness becoming less about the fear and more about the anticipation} <<Yes. Primale>> You trust me? <<Yes, my Lord>> and you know what is going to happen between us? <<Yes, my Lord>> the hood nods in accord with the softly spoken response <<The Directrix has provided the proper instruction>> Good. That's good {I didn't need to slip my hand between her thighs to know they were already coated with the liquid silk of her arousal. It was like a delicate fragrance blooming with the flush of her skin. Motioning to the other Chosen to proceed while I rest the breadth of my shoulders against one of the huge Corinthian columns, monolithic guardians circling the perimeter of the Primale temple, the blunt between my lips, drawing the red smoke deep, absently toying with the weight of the medallion resting between my pecs while the two handmaidens lead the hooded Chosen to the raised bedding platform, the sheath falling from her body in a whisper to pool on the white marble floor, diamond eyes darkening as they lay her out naked on immaculate silk sheets, binding her wrists with white satin ties...and that's when it strikes me that the place is like a photographic negative of the penthouse, black and white, down  to the ceiling hooks and the gag one of the Chosen is preparing to use on her sister... a willing body, bound and masked at my mercy, and while there may not be sadistic pain involved, there was no denying the air was laced thick, dripping, literally, with the same scents of fear and arousal that tripped the switch on baser, carnal desires...the gag wouldn't be necessary, this time. The only screams from the Chosen's throat would be ones of unadulterated pleasure...and begging for release from the erotic torture I would inflict on her exposed utterly vulnerable flesh...not like I was a bonded male, true, and these females got off on fulfilling their ritualistic duty...no reason we couldn't all take our own individual pleasures in its execution. Any tears would be for her sisters to comfort. Even if she never wanted to be touched again, there were forty more already lined up to take her place... but she would want it.. would beg for it even...given time, I could...educate them...and I was going to use the ceremonial hood to my advantage, spare the female the terror of beholding my battle hardened, inked warrior face.. and my intimidating size... phearsome, I recall, was the old language term. Exhaling  a low husky laugh, stabbing out the blunt and dismissing the other Chosen from the Temple, no jones for an audience while I took this newling...the sash of my robe unknotted, dragging the silk pants down over my erection, the Chosen's creamy white inner thighs trembling prickling with goosebumps as rough palms, calloused skin and supple hide coax them to part...yes...I am the fucking Primale, with a mastery of taking others where they need to go...and one inch past that...which was why they all came for me....and why this Chosen would come for me...hard...I was going to mount her and take her virginity in a way that she would forever associate the fleeting pain with the shuddering, sex-flushed, screaming aftermath of spine-bending, mind-altering fucking ecstasy................ } 


*And again my duty is being set aside. My eyes cannot set upon the bowls that shimmer their liquid song to me. No sight will be turned towards the Primale’s temple as he takes the Chosen First Mate and unites us all to the cause. The union will bind us as his females...no, it will bind them. The ones who go willingly to serve him, I have my place set on its path, I am serving in my own...way...thoughts drift as emerald eyes skim to the bowls. The barest glimpse of draped silk and smooth limbs enough to wrench a growl from a throat unused to such aggression. She should not be serving him. It should not be her body he claims first. But the rise and fall of the ritual songs continued, a wave of sound wrapping threads through the fibres of a crowd of female forms and linking them to the male who would own us all. Parchments gathered roughly, I leave the hard straight support of my chair to curl on the flat mattress cot with the Scribe Virgin’s edits. History had to be written to her specifications. Maybe correcting my mistakes would keep me busy long enough to miss whatever version of coupling the warrior could offer my sister. She would do him well, the most beautiful, the most gracefully elegant, she is the epitome of all we strive to be as a sisterhood. Nothing but the best for the Primale. I don’t know how long I lie there, only the scratch of quill to scroll and the occasional drifting note of excited chatter to accompany the confused jumble of barely coherent thoughts rolling around in my head like marbles in a bowl. <<Sister?>> The hissing whisper comes again when I make no move to respond. A small knock hurried to the heavy wood of the door as though hounds are nipping at the females heels. More likely the Directrix is approaching and I would take hounds over her icy authority any day. Hastening to shift the locks sealing me into the sequestered temple, the whisper of delicate robing sweeps a breathless Chosen into the shadowed white dwelling, her words hushed and excited spilling out before the locks even fit back into place. <<Verily, Serhenity, I apologise for the intrusion, but I had to confide in someone. I have so much to say and the others...they know only what they want from him. I would not raise their hopes only to have been wrong in my own interpretation.>>* ‘Tis no intrusion, sister, I welcome your company. Please speak freely. I have no ground to pass judgement. <<Oh sister, you missed it, you missed it all. Verily, you must come from this place, make history with us, do not write about it. The Primale, he is...>>*She pauses for breath only to find words great enough to honour him and my silence cannot be kept as I wait* You are...well? *From what I have observed, couplings with the warrior Primale were rough, brutal, and my eyes scan the gently sheathed curves of my sister’s body with concerned emerald* He did not hurt you? Sister, praise him not, you need not cover for him...if he defiled you...*The words are from my lips before I can stop them. An insult to claim that the Primale could defile any one of us. We are his. It is his right to take us as it pleases him.*<<Sister, no!! I am well, I am unharmed...>>*and the praise flows like a river of eroticism, every word the female knows associated with carnal knowledge pouring from her lips and infusing my cheeks with the wild pink heat of a dichotomic emotion. Embarrassment and jealousy? Envy? But I am red instead of green with it, flushed as my sister speaks her experiences in hushed adoration. She truly was not hurt, but the brevity of her maidenhood being torn lingered with pulses of arousal, that pain never surpassing the pleasure she poetically thrills to my ears. She is aglow with ecstasy, already formulating a way to bypass her sisters and grace his bed once more.* You are First mate. You take precedence, sister. ‘Tis written, but his duty to all Chosen must too be fulfilled. You cannot birth an entire army of warriors alone. *Images of surging muscle and sweat sheened golden flesh flickers across my vision, a daydream risen up mid thought to confound my senses and tickle me with coiling fire*<<Verily, I know I cannot claim him as mine own, but a female may dream, may she not? I have another request. You have lent your ears readily, and now I must ask for your eyes. I remained blind throughout it all, the pleasure took my body but my sight was allowed no relief to look upon his face. You have seen him, sister. I pray you tell me so I may dream of the true Primale.>> *How to describe such savage masculine beauty? From hard chiseled jaw, sculpted to a razor edge of stubble, the Primale is untamed and predatory, a honed killing machine of feral violence and blazing sexual fury...he is a shadow, ice built with a core of dangerous steel, and yet he burns...through flat images on glittering waters, he scorches my skin and my skin and makes the precious diamonds of the world shrink back in disgrace, none could dare to match the ice white purity of his gaze, crystalline, a glacier of resonant power...gathering my robes to perch on the edge of the cot with a resigned sigh, I settle down to try to describe, in as much fact as possible, the beauty of an inked, viciously perfect warrior Primale to a female who wants him for herself*