Page 50 of Pawn of the Cruel Princess
A shout distracts both of us. It’s Cowen, running toward the pool, stripping as he goes. In seconds his square, thick body is entirely naked, except for the gold chain and medallion that bangs against his chest as he runs. His dick doesn’t look tiny at all. Strange. But I barely get a glimpse before the image of his pale, freckled ass is seared on my eyeballs and he flings himself into the pool with a yell and a giant splash.
Laughter erupts from the other guests, and one by one they begin to strip off their outer garments and leap in after Cowen. Some of them retain scraps of clothing—others go in nude. I have never seen so many dicks or bare breasts in my life.
I let my outer robe slip from my shoulders. Underneath I'm wearing a pair of lace panties and a tiny lace corset that cups and supports my breasts while barely covering them.
Maybe it’s the smoke, or the drink, or maybe it’s the heat of the sun kissing my skin, but for the first time since I arrived, I can feel it—the atmosphere my sister has spoken of in such glowing terms. The thrum of my blood, the bare beauty of my own skin, the desire thrumming through my veins. The wild impulse to do everything I’ve never done, to push myself to new limits and undertake new adventures.
The wine and the weed have done their part, the day is bright and the music is cheerful, and we are all young.
This is it. This is Summerglee.
The water is warmer than I thought it would be.
I slide deeper into it, feeling along the rocky bottom until I find the dropoff to the deeper part. I’m up to my shoulders here, and I’m not ready to go any farther yet.
Part of me craves the cool stone walls and metallic scent of the torture rooms back home—the delicate work of eliciting secrets and confessions with the least possible amount of physical damage. I love the sense of control I have in that role. Here, I am out of my depth, and I do not have my knives.
Ducayne moves up beside me, the gleaming edge of the water cupping his pectorals. Flowers and herbs of delicate green, deep rose, and pale yellow fleck the water’s surface, and a few of the petals cling to his skin. He’s still smoking thehannasstick, and his eyes are glossy, pupils blown wide from its effects, smoke issuing from his parted lips.
He’s had enough, so I pluck thehannasstick from him, pinch it out, and fling it onto a rock. We can fetch it later.
Ducayne hums his displeasure, but he doesn’t say anything—just ducks beneath the water and comes up streaming wet, water beading on his lashes and lips. He rakes his hands through his dripping hair, biceps bulging as he does it.
Once again his beauty hurts me. I’m not sure why.
The priest and priestess of Beirgid are standing on a rock beside the waterfall. The music changes, and they begin a melodic chant, words of pleasure and good fortune—a blessing.
My sister is in the deep center of the pool with Ethwyn, her red hair floating like a cloud of blood in the water around her. After a long kiss with her thrall, she pushes him below the surface to pleasure her. He pops up after a minute, snatches a breath, and goes back down.
The priest and priestess end their chant. Golden sunlight and dappled shadow filter over the shining shoulders and multi-hued faces in the pool. A haze of incense andhannassmoke thickens the air.
“Luthia and her thrall Sherad have agreed to begin the carnal rites for us,” Vienne announces, speaking above the sound of the waterfall. “Those of you who prefer the ceremonial copulation can now follow the priest and priestess into the cave temple behind the falls.”
Ward and a few others leave the pool and follow the path along its edge, disappearing into the darkness behind the veil of water.
“What’s the benefit of the ceremonial copulation?” whispers Ducayne.
“Mating with a priest or priestess supposedly imparts great health, strength, and virility,” I murmur. “It’s a stronger dose of blessing from the goddess. The carnal rites give good luck too, but they’re like a nod of respect, while copulation with a servant of Beirgid shows utter devotion, and is usually accompanied by a monetary gift to the temple.”
“So the priests and priestesses are whores for hire.”
I slam my palm over his mouth and glance around frantically. “Don’t say that! Especially not in the pool of the goddess herself.”
“All right, all right.”
“You should know better. Your people worship the gods.”
“Not like this. In my kingdom, thralls are more like servants with sexual duties and less like erotic pets—with a few exceptions. And we don’t worship Beirgid or the other gods with the passion your kingdom does. Most of our shrines and temples are rarely attended and poorly maintained.”
“So you’re apostates. You’ve abandoned the true source of life and magic.”
Ducayne rolls his eyes, and I frown. Thehannashas made him a little too free with his opinions and expressions.
“You worship Arawn, not Beirgid,” he points out. “You’re just as different from them as I am.” He nods to the clusters of people kissing and entwining in the pool.
“Maybe,” I admit. “But I respect the other gods, even if I don’t worship them as devotedly as Arawn.”
“Is there a shrine to Arawn near here?”
