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Sahib of Calla

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The sands of the desert rise and fall like tides as the ages pass. Kings ascend to thrones, and their mortal bodies descend into pyramids, forgotten. Gods rise to power, and sink from grace as disciples throw stones and turn their faces to new gods. Through this all demons watch from dust storms in the desert, spinning in their dervish dances…waiting.


A powerful dust storm drives towards a temple. A man waits there, patient, believing he is powerful, believing power will be drawn to him. It comes. He sits in his meditation in his dark holy place. Candles flicker. A dusty zephyr seeps into the temple from the sands, caresses the man, swirling, surrounding him. A demon whispers, its voice softly hissing like the quiet hiss of incense. It shows him the sands of the desert, rising, falling. It shows him the power of kings, of gods. It whispers of promises. It is his time.


The power of gods are fueled by many things, the demon tells him. One god magnifies his power on the backs of mortal hatreds. Another god amplifies his dominion with the yoke of justice. The power whispered by this demon is founded in lust. It murmurs to him. It shows him of great things to come. It promises to bring more demons to his aid. It leads him from a wasteland through a doorway to an oasis of wealth and power…but the doorway requires a key, and the key must be captured.


A white lily dances in the desert, pale and fragile. Willowy arms sway as she dances. Soft white petals bend to the breeze like hair billowing in the wind. The flower dissolves into the form of a woman and she is untaken and ripe, this key, this catalyst to his lust. She is not like the women of his homeland and their dark beauty. Long white curls, soft as the petals of a desert lily, pale skin the color of cool milk, the Lily turns to him in the vision and intoxicates him. She will be the fertile ground for his power, for his lust. His magic will grow each time he claims her, and from her will spring forth children, many children to spread the foundation of his legacy to come. But it must be the Lily. She is the key.


~ ~ ~ ~ ~


A wedding contract is made between the son of an Aquilonian noble and the daughter of a wealthy senator. The noble dies before the nuptials and the wedding is delayed. The groom goes mad and kills the bride’s father. He swears his innocence and his love for her. Her father is put to the ground and she goes to her bed after the funeral, still unmarried, still untouched. She awakens, not in her bed, but on a hard palate aboard a ship, rocked by heavy seas. She is chained, but untouched still, held apart from the other slaves. Who did this to her? Why?

A sorceress on an island at the end of the girl’s destination needs the blood of virgins to appease a volcano god and the pale girl was bought at a good price. A Stygian man arrives to Tortage before the shipping lanes are blocked. Apart, they both wait.


~ ~ ~ ~ ~


Demons of the sand join demons of the sea and the storm rises while the man meditates in the dark cave on the beach. There is a ship that must not dock at the harbor, a lily that must not be led with the others to the altar of a sorceress. There is another altar waiting for her, an altar where she will be the chalice filled repeatedly with ritual emissions, an altar where she will give birth to the sons of a desert man. He sees her in his mind. He holds in his hand the collar that was forged with the combined efforts of his magic and that of the demon. It is of precious white gold, and it bears a special clasp.


The ship is torn apart in the storm. The fragile lily is tossed afloat, gliding on the violent waves, lifted by demons to her destiny. The storm abates and the lily is washed ashore, to the feet of a man who seeks power and wealth. He lifts her to her knees. He examines her incoherent eyes, and without a second thought, the collar is slipped around her neck. The clasp flashes and seals. There is no joint, no opening, it is a seamless circle of a serpent biting it's tail ‘round her neck bearing the seal of a white lily over the serpent's mouth.


He takes her arm and pulls her to her feet. “Come with me Lily,” he commands her.


“Lil…no, I am Ophelia, where am I?” she replies.


His dark hands grip her milky shoulders, his pale sage-green eyes bore into her bluish-green ones, “Your name and your past are gone. You have arrived to your new life. You are my dancing lily, Calily, and you are mine, now and forever.”


((The couple's theme-song: [1]




The Journal of Calily, 1st Entry


I have no idea what the date is, how much time has passed. I can only assume that the day of my wedding has come and passed without me. First it was delayed by the death of my beloved’s father. Then my day was postponed when my own father was killed. Killed or murdered. My intended stood accused; some say it was an accident set on by my love’s sudden madness. He was my love, but not quite my lover. Petting and sweet kisses never prepared me for the world I find myself floundering in now.


I went to my bed after my father’s funeral, and awoke aboard a ship, shackles on my wrists. I was kept apart from the other women, women who had marks on their shoulders. Though I was treated roughly, I was strangely not touched the way the other girls were. Uncountable days passed until one sweltering afternoon the ship shuttered hard a-port with a loud explosive bang, throwing us all to the side as the below decks canted and tilted at odds with the other parts of the ship that rocked back starboard as the ship split and splintered.


I lost track of all the bodies, who lived, who drown, but I was determined to be among the living. A senator’s daughter is afforded many luxuries, and long summers swimming at the lakeside manors of nobles afforded me the strength and stamina to make for sea’s surface. Thank Mitra for the glorious sight of land. A beach lay not far so I made my way quickly for that god sent shore.


Blessing soon to curse, I found myself upon sands at the feet of a dark man with illuminated sage green eyes. Before I could utter a complete sentence, he had slapped a thin piece of metal ‘round my neck. He would hear nothing of my past, of my name. He insisted on calling me Lily. Through a jungle he dragged me, shoving daggers in my hands which I found I could not turn against him. Together he forced me to fight our way past savages until we reached the corrupt town of Tortage.


The city was under some sort of blockade which thwarted this man who forces me to stay near his side. I got away from him once, stealing a little boat to a place called White Sands Isle. He easily found me and punished me, dropping me to my knees with pain around my throat…that damned collar. I am nearly resigned to give up on my escape from him, for now.


His punishments come in forms more than mere pain. I am ruined for my sweet Hamet, the boy I would have married. I have lost my maidenhood to the cruel keeper, in a horrible ritual to the man that calls himself Terathul to others, but orders me to call him Sahib.


He tells me I am his and his alone, and uses me both as his whore and as his receptacle during rituals of horrible design. He speaks of an emissary to Set, someone or something called Callatep. Sahib tells me that it is my destiny to be his, the concubine of Terathul, and to give birth to many children that will spread the word of Callatep, he who speaks The Word of Set.


Finally succeeding at getting us out of Tortage, Sahib took me to a city called Khemi. I have heard of it only in the vaguest of terms. I thought to lose myself in the crowd of it but then at every corner I find slave masters leering hungrily at me, reaching to grab me until they see the thin collar I bear. They have no respect for human flesh, but apparently many of them do have respect for another man’s property, and so I am his, Sahib’s property, for now, here in his lands. At least I have that protection it seems. Others do not touch me or try to steal me away as long as this collar appears at my throat.


We are staying at a place called Serpents Head. He had left the first eve we were there and then beckoned me to come to him, speaking in my mind. I believe there is something in the sculpted lily in the design of the collar that allows him to do that as it feels warm to my throat when he speaks and I am able to speak to him through it. I refused to come to him, to leave the Serpent’s Head Inn. I am afraid of the city. I do not wish to walk the streets of Khemi alone. Though Terathul is my keeper and has forced me to his side, he does keep me safe from all but himself and better abuse at the hands I am quickly coming to know than to a dozen strangers.


My former life did not prepare me for all this. My life was a simple one, it was to remain a simple one, a life of ease and comfort, blessed by Mitra. Now I am in strange land, a pale woman among a race of dark strangers. All that I knew, all that I was as Ophelia of Aquilonia, it is all so very far away from me now.




The Journal of Calily, 2nd Entry


I discovered why I was kept from the other slaves on that ship. Apparently all of us were being sent to Tortage to join some kind of army of slaves. I heard the name “Mithrelle” mentioned, and was told that she uses the blood of virgins in rituals to keep the volcano from erupting. Rather than going into their army of slaves, I think I was kept from the others so they would make sure of retaining my virginity for this sorceress so she could either bleed me over time or sacrifice me all together. That I was found and taken in a totally different direction away from her by Sahib, despite how treats me, well I must be grateful for that at least. It was not Sahib he who murdered my would-be father-in-law. It was not Sahib that murdered my father. And it was not Sahib that drugged me and kidnapped me from my bed and sold me to the slavers.


Despite Sahib’s refusal to allow me to use my real name or talk of my former life, he did make outside inquiries into my past. He’s told me that there is talk coming from Aquilonia that the daughter of the murdered Senator had committed suicide. It is said that she, or rather that I, threw myself into the river to drown, overcome with sorrow at my father’s death. I cannot help but believe that this rumor is spread by whoever is behind the murders and I fear for my young brother who is the last heir to the great vineyards and family fortune.


Sahib talks often of the “will of Callatep” and the “Word of Set” but I understand none of it. He bears a large tattoo on his chest, and at the head of the figure tattooed upon him is a halo-like circle consisting of a snake biting its tail. He tells me the circle is never-ending, eternal. He called it an ouroboros. He speaks of lot about eternity and immortality. Crazy talk.


We were sitting downstairs in the lounging area of the Serpent’s Head and he was smoking a pipe. It was hypnotic to watch the smoke. I know Sahib commands magic, I saw him use it enough killing the picts back on those islands around Tortage before we made our way past the blockade. I could not sense him using magic when he smoked, but still the wafts would twist as snakes, at times forming the same circle that halo’s the tattoo on his chest, like the white gold snake around my neck that claims to others that I am Sahib’s property.


Sahib was talking to me and I was ignoring him as has become our habit when a woman walked up to us, watching us, or perhaps watching his smoke. I am not sure. I am only sure that she was beautiful. She told Sahib that she had heard a name whispered to her in a dream. She said the name was Callatep. The hairs on my neck rose like a cat’s.


Is Sahib not the only one? There are others that seek this Callatep? She joined us. She said her name is Khaiti. After speaking for some time, Sahib gave her a small brooch, another ouroboros like the one he had pinned to leather straps that my Sahib jokingly calls my clothing. They tested it, and like my collar, we could hear each other. Unlike my collar I could only hear the voices in my head through it, not sense the emotions behind the words the way I can sense the anger of Sahib when I disobey him, which I do often. The brooch allows all who wear them to hear each other, though I do not understand the magic. The collar, however, is only keyed to Sahib and myself. At least I hope. He says repeatedly that I am his alone and so I continue to hope that he will not pass me around to his friends as others do with their slaves.


He punishes me for disobeying him, but I will not be broken easily. Perhaps if I fight him long enough he will grow tired of me and will give up on whatever it is that drives him to keep me attached to him.




The Journal of Calily, 3rd Entry


We have been in Khemi for what has been a very confusing week. I sit here beside my sleeping Sahib, weighing the paths behind me, what I was raised to be, and what I am becoming.


I expected my life to be one of comfort. The boy I was engaged to seemed to adore me. Though I was taught to read and to write, I was not taught to think or to have any manual skills beyond woman’s work. My only responsibility in what would’ve been a pampered life was to look pretty and bear heirs. I was not to be involved in my father’s business at the vineyards, nor was I to be involved in whatever it is that the noble family does that I was to marrying into. I know that at least on my father’s side there was another business buried beneath the transporting of our wine kegs, but what that business was, I was always kept ignorant of its nature. Khaiti made me think of this last night and this is what prompts my contemplation now. She spoke of the importance and value of information. I saw in my mind the thousands of kegs of wine that have left our family estate over the many years, and in my mind I saw men talking, coin exchanged. I begin to wonder was the coin only for the wine? Was more than wine transported with those kegs along the trade routes? Could this be linked to what caused Hamet’s madness and the death of both our fathers? I also begin to wonder why my own mind was not valued as important, as though my only value in life was to be a speaking decoration to be patted on the head.


I wonder now in hindsight if I would have been happy in that life, the one stolen from me. It was not Sahib who stole me from it, but it is he that keeps me from returning to it. I begin to wonder if it is not truly for my own good that he does this. Sahib does not keep my mind pacified with women’s things. He arms me and trains me. He expects me to think, expects my mind to grow along with the sore muscles I am learning to use to swing these blades. He speaks to me of his plans. He includes me in them.


I was especially willful last night, rudely and in public. He punished me for it later, and to my shame, I think I now deserved it. He often tells me that Callatep told him to find me, but last night he revealed that Callatep told him years ago that he was to search for me, years ago, and that he, my Sahib has spent years of his life looking for me. Hamet never searched for me. His interest in me only began after our fathers contracted our marriage. In fact, prior to that, what little I knew of Hamet was that he spent a great deal of time with the other young men at the public baths. And here is Sahib…he spent years of his life searching for me. Me! After being led to Tortage by his demon, he spent weeks on that beach. His faith in his demon god, Callatep, kept him vigilant on that beach, believing I would come. He knew that a pale woman would wash up on that beach and that I had a purpose in his life, one that gave me more to do than looking pretty and bearing heirs. That I did not end up on the sacrificial altar of Mithrielle is also a plus. I could very well be dead right now.


Oh, I am expected to bear heirs for Sahib. That much has been repeated to me often and he tells me that I am already bearing his first. But he does not stop there. He does not hide me away in a closet. He takes me with him where he goes. He teaches me to think, to observe, to learn. He does not teach me to pacify his toy, he expects me to learn, to grow, he demands it. He includes me in his plans for the future. I am not a decoration along the way to his future, no, I am a partner in it. A lesser partner, yes, he reminds me that he will always be my master. But he does not treat me like a common slave, and he does not share me with others. As his consort, he elevates me above others.


I thought I knew what it was to love a man with my innocent maiden crush on Hamet. With Sahib, I find I am no longer struggling to escape his arms when he falls asleep and his grip on my body relaxes, but that I am turning to cling to him in the night.


He tells me that his next endeavor is to reclaim the land that now covers the city that once belonged to his ancestors. He has taken me to the Vault of Keepers. It was one of his more terrifying rituals he forced me to be a part of, one that ended in him branding my shoulder with a symbol much like the brooch he makes me wear to communicate with his followers.


File:Http://www.usplus.net/pix/Brand.jpg


He tells me that the small city that once surrounded the temple was once centered on an oasis surrounded by a vast desert, and that over a great deal of time, when the unfaithful of his family fell, the sands first swallowed the city, burying it. That is why only the tip of the temple is still exposed and the rest of the Vault of Keepers is deep underground in the middle of collapsed ruins that once housed his fore-fathers. Over time many oasis dotted the sands and grew into one another until they became a great swamp that spread forth reclaiming the sands. This new land over his family’s buaried city is lush and fertile. It is Sahib’s plan to gather his new followers, find those of like purpose and those who will follow the will of Callatep to raise up another city over the ruins of the old one.


I have decided that in comparing what little was to be expected of my life before, compared to what Sahib shows before me and expects me to be, had I a choice in this, I believe now I would take the path that Sahib has forced me upon. I have decided to embrace this path, to learn all that Sahib wishes me to learn, all that he wishes to teach me. I do now want to return to being a simple minded woman, blissfully ignorant. I want more, a great deal more.




The Journal of Calily, 4th Entry


My Sahib brings more followers to Callatep each day it seems. We are joined by a crude Northman and his slave. He is crass, the way he makes her do intimate things to her publicly. My mother was right. Cimmerians are barbarians. Anyway, other than that, he seems capable enough and will make a fine warrior for my Sahib I expect. Rhya seems most interested in those two. There was a scene between them that grew violent in the Serpent’s Head and it was not my place to enter into it, and it appeared to be Sahib’s will to let them play it out to whatever conclusion it was meant to have. I am curious where they stand now, and who is the true master…or mistress…of that threesome.


My greatest interest in our members is Khaiti. Khaiti and Rhya, in fact, also had words of a fashion. Rhya insists she has all the knowledge she needs to know, and she sounded very much like my father when he was discouraging me to let my mind grow because he felt knowledge and teaching was effort wasted on women. My father believed my mind too simple to learn on the surface, but I wonder if people like my father and like Rhya use this as a feint because they feel that knowledge to those on the steps below them is dangerous to their position at the top of the steps.


Khaiti believes that knowledge is important, and it is one of the blessings of my Sahib, that he wishes me to learn, to grow. He is not a master that would suppress me, but rather wants my strengths to grow. I know very little of Sahib’s people, their customs and gods, their holidays, their way of doing things. I have sent a letter to Khaiti, asking her if she would consider teaching me. Now that Sahib has given me a thirst for knowledge, I wish to drink freely from it and to fill my mind with the things my father would not have me know.


I see how other slaves are treated. Some good, some badly. Sahib does not treat me so but for his needs for me in his holy rites and my addiction for him grows stronger but I find I no longer loathe my need for him. Though Sahib is my master and I wear his collar, he has not called me slave since I stopped fighting him. Now he introduces me as his Consort, that I am the Lily ordained to him by his demon god, Callatep, the great Coil that speaks the Word of Set.


I came to Stygia against my will, a freewoman forced into a collar at the hands of Terathul, and yet since having this collar upon my neck I am finding myself freer than I was in my own home. His long leash is far more appealing to me now than the gilded cage I once lived in.


On another note, I overheard mention of a great relic spoken of by Nectanebo and Nefernebthet. My Sahib appears to have great interest in this relic, in finding it before the “others” find it. I have no idea who these “others” are, but I have heard the word “dreamers” mentioned. I am clueless on this and may be entirely wrong, but I do know that Sahib wishes his Keepers to join together in four days time to seek out this relic hidden in the Black Castle, and perhaps even to go against the great sorcerer there.





Days in the heat, the sand, such drastic changes to her life, the level of being overwhelmed had become toxic. Calily needed to just stop…just walk away for a while. She missed her family’s balineum, their private bathhouse, and her ritual to restore her sanity when things around her seemed to crumble and she needed time to re-center herself.


One day she was facing west, planning a sedate and likely highly boring, married life into a world she was raised and trained to face. The next day her life, her torn innocence and her ideas of the world were all facing south to a temple on the border of Stygia and Shem.


She stood now in the rented house in Stygia where Sahib kept them with a few servants, shaking her head. “Enough,” she murmured, and with that she turned on her heel and brought those few servants together. “You...” she pointed, “Go to the souk and find me bath salts. Find salts that smell of lilies and jasmine. Oh, and candles…find me scented candles. You...” she pointed to another servant, “I want everything taken out of the spare bedroom. As for you…” she pointed to third servant, “I want you to find a large tub, larger than the puny one you Stygian’s call a bathing tub. I want a large Aquilonian tub and have it delivered and placed in the center of the cleared spare bedroom."


She gave up a whole day of what should have been her training with her blades in order to build her balineum, but it was time well spent, she thought. She only hoped that Sahib would agree when he came back from whatever business had him away and that he would not punished her for not training today. Before the tub was found and delivered, she had rolled up her own sleeves, so to speak, and worked along side those servants tearing the carpets up to be beaten clean, the room scrubbed pure, and fresh silks hung about the room until she had her soothing, clean sanctuary.


It was sunset by the time the tub was filled, a dozen candles lit, and the servants shooed away. Discarding her clothing at the door inside her balineum, she took a deep breath, slowing her mind, her heart, stilling her spinning thoughts. Naked she walked to the center of the room, to the large tub. Slowly she cast the scented salts across the clean waters of her bath. Three times she cast the salt, in honor of the three cycles of womanhood, that of child, mother, crone. Slowly with meditative care, she stirred the water until the salt dissolved, the aroma wafting up with the steam that began filling the room.


Softly she began to chant, “Water and earth, blessings upon me. I do cast out from me any troubles from mind, body and spirit. I cast out any and all things that are not to my good benefit. I do cast out any and all emotions that may be pulling me down and harming me. Be cast out that which is not in complete agreement with me.”


She took up a candle and circled the tub three times, stopping to face the tub, facing the East and setting the candle down. “Bless me spirits, for I am your daughter.” She dipped her finger into the water and anointed her forehead, the third eye of the mind and then touched each eyelid of her face. “Blessed be my eyes, that I will see my path clearly.”


Again she dipped her fingers into the water and then anointed her nose, “Blessed be my nose, that it helps me breathe the essence that is the Sacred Mist of the clearing path.”


Again, dipping her fingers, and this time anointing her lips, “Blessed be my lips, that I may speak the truth.”


Again she anointed, this time to her breasts, “Blessed be my breasts and my heart, that they maybe faithful and loving.” She anointed herself drawing a wet line from her belly to her sex, “Blessed be my womb, for they are life-giving.” Anointing her knees she chanted, “Blessed be my knees for they kneel in sacredness and joy.” Finally she anointed her feet, “Blessed be my feet that they lead me down the true path, my true path, and where I am meant to be.”


Slowly, carefully, she eased herself into the tub of hot, perfumed water. Carefully she washed away the tensions, her worries, her fears. “What do you most desire,” she heard the voice in the dark of her mind. “What do you most desire,” she heard echoed in Khaiti’s voice from last night at the Purple Carp Tavern. She sunk herself into the tub to her neck. Scenes of her life floated by like dreams. She saw a young girl, herself as she was, Ophelia, the life she knew flowing away like a slow churning river and away to sea, lost among the foam. She saw herself turning to the South, no longer a girl but a woman. A dark skinned, white haired child stood beside her holding her hand on the left, and another child, a younger one stood holding her hand on the right. From perfumed mists a shadow formed and moved slowly to her. It was a man, a tall, dark, handsome man with sage-green eyes. He was a man that had forced her eyes open, forced her mind to expand, forced her heart to soar. He moved to her, cupping her chin in his hand, calling her by her new name, as he called her into her new life. “Calily, my Calily,” he spoke softly to her as he reached her mouth for a kiss.


A sound brought her from the meditation and she raised herself slightly from the waters in her tub. “What do you desire most,” she heard the voice say. The answer stood before her, walking to her, reaching to take her hand and pull her naked from the bath. He smiled at her. She smiled back, speaking softly as she reached his mouth for a kiss, “Sahib, my Sahib.”




      • WARNING...THE FOLLOWING IS EXPLICIT CONTENT OF SEXUAL NATURE***


It was good to have the balineum now, the only custom she insisted on keeping of her old life in Aquilonia. The ritual of the bath…it was time for another ritual. She asked Khaiti to teach her, and Khaiti had accepted to help her learn more of the ways of her Sahib’s people. They had not had any lessons yet, but one thing Calily had observed on her own was that the women of Stygia all seemed to keep themselves free of body hair, all but for their eyebrows and scalp. She’d even seen a few women with shaved scalps but for a top-knot of hair. She’d asked her Sahib about this, wondered what his preference was, and he said he preferred women hairless as well. It was the custom. He had not complained or ordered her shaven; he’d accepted her as she was.


She examined her naked self in the long mirror. Her breasts were heavier. It was the child within her causing this change. She turned sideways, pushing out her belly, trying to imagine what she’d look like when it swells. “Pity,” she thought to herself, “I’ve only learned now to become graceful with the blade dance and in months I will be a big clumsy woman heavy with child”. She pouted at herself and then shrugged, turning from the mirror to move to the tub of hot, perfumed water. On its wide ledge sat a small metal mirror, a bottle of clear lotion and a small blade sharpened razor thin.


The High Priestess of the Derketo’s Embrace had given her instructions, and she took the bottle of lotion in hand, remembering them. Mistress Clys had said shave first, then use the lotion, that the lotion would keep the hair away for good, but Calily had dubious thoughts to shaving dry and no one had ever explained shaving to her. She pouted again thinking. “Alrighty then,” she murmured to herself and decanted the bottle with a small pop. It was a clear potion and smelled of flowers but of what kind she could not determine. Pouring it in her hand it felt warm, a bit tingly, not the kind of burning warm as her Sahib’s cum but a bit like it. Of course she’d never felt or tasted another man’s cum, or seen another man’s erect cock so she was unaware that anything about Sahib was out of the ordinary. Nor was she aware of whether or not any other Stygian men had the kind of appendages that writhed like cobra’s and flicked tongues at her sex as they approached her. He was a priest of Callatep, the High Priest of Callatep…it did not occur to her question if this would or would not be abnormal. She accepted it, she craved him, she worshiped his snake as all of Stygia worshiped a snake for a god. It was somehow all perfectly normal to her in the oblivious haze of her addiction for him.


Her thoughts of him had her rubbing the lotion into her pussy, forgetting her purpose for a moment, her clit swelling and starting to peek out from the outer folds, rising a bit into her thatch of pale pubic hair. It was white hair, like the hair on her head, perhaps a shade darker, a bit more silvery. She moved her knees apart and slid a long finger into her slit, parting the hair and the outer lips to find the soft pink petals within. The lotion tingled warmly and she moaned softly to herself. She rolled back to lay on the ledge, one knee bend on the ledge she laid across and the other leg dangling over the edge. It felt so good, so warm. She rubbed the slick potion between the folds, around them, rolling her stiff pearl, arching her back in pleasure.


Were she not drugged to this addiction for her lord’s sex, she’d have been startled at his sudden touch on her knee, but the addiction alerted her subconsciously the moment her senses caught the scent of his pheromones moments before his hand touched her naked skin. She opened her eyes and looked up at him, still rubbing herself, unashamed. He wore his ever present smirk on his face.


“What are you up to, my Lily?” he purred at her, noticing her glazed eyes. She watched him wordlessly, the addiction for him climbing as she caught the scent his pre-cum. Her eyes lowered to see the bulge under his kilt writhing and she bit her lip, imagining the taste of his enchanted cum on her tongue. He knew he had her, that she needed him, that the enchantment in his seed chained her to him and that he was her drug. Slowly he looked about his lust drugged woman, his eyes drinking in the shape of her exotically pale white body. He caught the sight of the lotion and the razor. “Here, let me help you, my pet,” he cooed with his thick Stygian accent.


He sat beside her, moving between her knees. She watched him, needing, wanting him, licking her lips, her nipples hardening. His smirk spread to a slow half smile as he took note of the lotion already on her sex and he gently pushed her thighs to part wider for him. He took one of the razors, and carefully, slowly, shaved the patch of white fur from her mons pubis. He looked up at her, noted her eyes glazing more, and caught the soft sigh from her mouth. He smirked again, and leaned over to kiss the shaven spot. He flicked his tongue slowly into the crease between an outer petal and the inner one, slicking it up to her clit. He teased the nub until she moaned again and then ran his tongue down the length of the crevice between the other outer and inner petals. He sat back up, chuckling softly at her sigh as he pulled away. He took the razor lower, carefully shaving the length of the left outer petal and after he’d finished, he carefully shaved the petal on the right. He examined his work and then hooked a finger into her slit, pushing to bury his finger to the second knuckle and she gave out a moan. He teased her with his finger, inserting another, slowly stroking inside the depths, feeling her slick and ready for him. “Good girl, such a good girl,” he cooed to her softly. She began squirming, moving her hips, need rising. He pulled his fingers away, giving a wicked smile as she groaned at his withdrawal. “That’s right, my Lily…I control your bloom, and I take it away. Whose whore are you, Lily, tell me.”


“I am yours, Sahib, only yours,” she pleaded, “please…I am hungry…I need.”


He smiled, “Good girl, my slut.” He pushed her legs wider apart, carefully shaving what few hairs hid between the outer petals and the inner ones, and then pulled her cheeks apart to remove the strays that led to her rosebud. He examined his work again. Reaching over into the tub, he brought water to rinse away his shavings and then set the razor aside in a safe place. He gathered more lotion before setting the bottle aside and massaged it into her slowly and deliberately from the top of her mons pubis all the way beyond rosebud, enticing soft moans from her, catching the scent of her juices beginning to flow. “Such a pretty flower, my Lily, only I will see this. Only I will have you.”


He slid a lotion coated finger down her sweet pink cunt, naked and clean to him. Down he trailed his finger till it found the rosebud again, and then he pushed against the tight muscle, forcing his finger in. She arched her back, her spincter squeezing down on his finger. “No, no, not tighter, my pet…you must loosen this up for me,” he softly coaxed her and slowly he worked a second finger into her tight ass. Her next moan became a cry, a hungry plea and her knees splayed out, begging him to mount her. He began stroking her rosebud, slowly sawing inside her, moving his mouth down to suck on her swollen pearl.


He widened his buried fingers apart, stretching. It would not be enough but it would help. He moved up onto a knee and removed his kilt, his cobra headed cock writhing and bobbing monstrously towards her. Shadows began to rise in the corners of the room, closing in, slowly, pulsing with Terathul’s heartbeat. His pupils narrowed into slits, the sage-green irises started glowing red. Straddling the wide edge of the tub bearing his consort, his lustful sacrifice, he sat and hooked his large hands onto her thighs. His cock slithered to find her rosebud, the forked tongue seeking by tasting, searching. It moved to her, positioned to strike, and all at once, Terathul yanked hard on her hips, pulling her onto his cock as his cock struck like a serpent driving hard into her ass. Calily arched her back and screamed. The shadows pulsed hard and closed in on them.


The High Priest of Callatep rammed hard into his Consort with brutal strokes, each stroke driving a weak scream from her throat, each scream bringing a darker, more powerful pulse from the shadow that surrounded them, the demon voraciously feeding from their lust as Terathul drove closer to his savage release. The serpentine cock flared its cobra flanges deep inside her. Each slam buried deeper inside her till his ferocious hammering had him sunk fully into her, his heavy balls filled with the addictive cum noisily slapping on her ass-cheeks, churning and clenching as they readied for release.


“Whose whore are you, my flower…who is your master?” he demanded of her.


She could barely answer him in her cries, panting for breath, her heart pounding in her chest. “Sahib is my master, I am his willing slave...please, Sahib, I beg…”


Her body tensed, her final scream became a guttural grunt, as her orgasm stole her breath, her bowels convulsing hard onto his cock, milking him, begging him to fill her. He rammed home deep and held himself locked within her clenching ass, his cock twitching wildly in long, hard ropes as hot cum billowed deep into his ordained whore. The Shadow drank from the lust spilling into the air, leaking into the ether plane where it fed the great demon, growing more powerful as the couple reeled in their rapturous state.


Hearts pounded, cum spilled, lust exploded, and once filled, the demon moved on to find its next meal within the Keepers of the Vault. Terathul rasped down to his woman, “You are mine and only mine, mine forever. Even then...forever may not be long enough.”




      • WARNING!!! THE FOLLOWING IS OF EXPLICIT CONTENT OF A SEXUAL NATURE BUT IS A MAJOR POINT IN THE STORYLINE***


Darkness and LightEdit

Darkness and Light. It has been an eternal war between the powers of either for supremacy. Battles are won and lost, and the balance tips to one side and to the next. Centuries ago, the battle was lost among Calla and her people, darkness fell away. The family strayed and fled to the light. Only a trickle of the faithful remained, keeping the bloodline alive, a bloodline that would lead to Terathul.


It was time, Callatep felt power stirring. There were many decades to reflect upon the error, and upon new strategies. Darkness and Light. There can be no shadows without light. Without Light, what does Darkness have to measure itself against? What of Light? To live only in Light blinds those who stare upon it, their worshiping in idle trance and lack of chaos bringing eventual Stagnation.


Power…the power of Shadows cannot be won by drenching in dark. Shadows need Light or it cannot Cast. The power of Shadow…it must…control the Light, bend it to its purpose.


It begins with a Key. Dark must master Light. Dark must mate with Light. Balance, a great circle of positive and negative energies creates one whole, spinning eternal. The war of division cannot be won. We must control the Light. We must stop fighting it, we must marry it, embrace it, rape it for our own, make Light not our enemy but our whore.


Callatep meditates. “My chosen High Priest is born.” The Chosen One is carefully cultivated. He will bring others, both those that answer His voice and those that will be fostered to His name. “And of Light?” A score of years after the Chosen is born…a stain forms upon Light.


There is a girl. She is young, trusting and ripe. She’d enter the house of Priestesses as an orphaned toddler and was raised in the Light, worshiping for years as she grew to the scant beginnings of womankind, finding that idle trance of stagnation, complete trust and naivety, a heart of full faith beneath young supple breasts. The Priest of Mitra was like a father to her. Many times she’d knelt for his blessing, the priest placing his palm on her head to bestow it, the trusting girl-child unaware why he would press his groin to her face as he blessed her head, unknowing what bulged beneath his robes so close to her virgin mouth.


Oh, he felt the guilt of his wanting many times, and many times he tried repentance, flogging himself and begging the forgiveness of Mitra for having such thoughts. His obsession for the girl was becoming maddening. Voices whispered to him in the dark, clinging to him from the shadows. Shadows flitted and weaved themselves under the door of a nunnery cell to whisper to the girl. Voices plagued her at night, unfocused voices, mumblings she could not understand. They sung to her a siren’s melody that brought her still sleeping to walk from cell to altar. Many mornings now the Sisters found her, kneeling and entranced before the altar. She told them of voices, of singing. They were sure she heard angels.


Two weeks past full moon, two weeks from a girl’s menses, into the sky rose a moon half light and half dark. It was not a struggle between light and dark, but a moon whole and balanced in Light and Dark. Soft voices in the dark brought the girl once again to the altar, entranced and led by songs of the dark, a faithful breast full of the belief in Light. This time she was met by the tortured priest, his back still bleeding from his self administrations of atonement. The altar stood between them. Step by faltering step, he rounded the altar to stand before her. Her face turned up to him at his approach, a corona of light emanating from her trusting face. His face twisted. He reached for her and she laid her hand in his as he brought her to her feet. He reached his other hand to her left breast, giving it a slow squeeze, feeling his loins jump. She merely smiled at him as though she were gazing upon Mitra, himself.


Able to control his desires no more, he spun her to the altar, pulled her soft linen robe over her head and tossed it aside. He lifted her onto the altar, pushing aside holy instruments of faith to flatten her lithe body beneath him, his mouth going to her flesh with an unbridled hunger, kissing her, sucking on her, licking and tasting every inch within his reach as a starving man to a feast. Her mind melted away, receded, oblivious to her body. She only felt him from a distance, when he parted her legs, when he slammed his tortured cock to tear away her hymen, his hand over her mouth to muffle her expected scream. There was no scream. She only softly moaned the quiet cries of the enraptured as he took her with a pent up violence from years of containing his lust for her.


He plowed deeply, long hard thrusts, undulating his hips to probe her from ovary to ovary, his balls heavy and churning as slow pleasure became excruciating need. His final impalements inched her bodily across the altar with each thrust until he buried himself deep into her, his swollen cock twitching hard with each billow of his seed. He laid there atop her for long moments as his heart pounded in his chest, unhearing the shocked screams of two Sisters that were woken by the crash of a chalice within the temple, Sisters who stood in horror watching their Priest defile the innocent girl.


He took one last look upon the object of his forbidden lust, her face still passively enraptured, but now, here eyes glazed white, blinded in Light. He fled to the bell tower; his mind was conflicted between the shame of what he’d done and his hatred for the Sisters at being caught by them and thus unable to hide what occurred so he could perhaps have the girl again and again. It is unknown if he jumped or if he was pushed by that shadow that stood beside him in the moon’s half-light, but died he did when his skull burst with a sickening splat upon the flat stones beneath the tower.


The Sisters took the girl from the Altar, crying for her, praying. It was wasted pity. The girl knew nothing of what happened to her. She considered herself blessed, a maiden of Mitra. She had spent the night in a meditation of the holiest of rituals at the command of her God. It never occurred to her after why her menses had stopped, nor could she perceive why her belly swelled in the coming moons.


Two weeks shy of ten moon’s time, in the fullness of the brightest moon of winter, shadows called to the girl once again. Singing led her enraptured to the altar and bid her to lay her tired body down upon it. Without cries of pain, without screams of fear, she lay upon the altar, her mind already looking for the path to Mitra as her body lay dying, fighting to bring life to the child within her, a child she never acknowledged as real.


Sisters were drawn to the altar in the early morning for prayer, to the sight of the cursed girl dead upon it. Between her legs lay a living, whimpering babe still connected to the mother with a lifeless cord. It was a girl child, of white hair, and eyes that would often changes like the waters of the sea from bluest blue, to stormy green, a child who would one day grow to look as the twin of her long passed mother.


Two years had passed before the Sisters could decide what would become of the child, a child who was often found to play in the gardens among the lilies. Finally it was decided, a child born of such wickedness, despite her innocence and good heart, could not be raised within their Temple. It would continue the curse upon them, and their Order needed to be cleansed. A couple was found, a childless couple and the girl found herself a life of loving parents who called her Ophelia, who held back no love nor money for her happiness. In time, they even produced a younger brother for her to play with.


Gentle years passed and the Shadow waited, waited for a Chosen High Priest of His Darkness to grow, waited for the Chalice of Light to come to her fullness, and in light of a half-moon over Tortage, the Rape of Light was cast. In a little corner of the world, His Hierophant of Darkness, Terathul, mastered and collared His ordained source of Light, and in that moment of Darkness claiming Light, the power of Shadow was fed and its first heir of the new era conceived.


Callatep looked back upon His work. It was just the beginning, a new beginning. The Darkness owned a source of Light. Shadows would rise to His design at the hands of his new followers. Now was the time of Callatep. Already his Voice called forth disciples. Already…a new city arose. Callatep’s time was now, and this time…the demon vowed to win.



Journal of Calily…5th entry


Things have slowed down, allowing for my growing girth. I am miserable. I know I’m told it’s my role to bear the Hierophant of Calla many heirs, but I’m just plain miserable. I can no longer fit into my little blue skirt. Terathul got me a larger tunic and some of the Keepers have sent me a couple of long pants that have wrapping waists so they will expand with my belly. Soon I’ll be too large to hunt at all, and it will be too dangerous to do so.

I will spend the last few months of this pregnancy not out hunting at Terathul’s side but stuck in the keep with nothing to do but to study the scrolls I beg off of Khaiti from our growing library in our city of New Calla. I know it will displease Terathul if he finds out, but I am looking into finding those herbs to make that tea with, the one that will keep me from conceiving again too soon. I’m studying alchemy and it’s a pretty common infusion, all I need to do is find the local variety of the correct plants that are like the ones they use back home in Aquilonia.

Something odd happened in the Souk today. I passed what I thought was my reflection in a window, but when I looked again, it was not my reflection, but a woman on the other side of the glass looking out at me, a woman that looked strikingly like me. An urchin bumped into me and by the time I quickly snagged my coin purse from the runt and looked back to the window, she was gone.

Later in the day I sought shelter from the heat outside by going into the Serpent’s Head for a cool tea. All the tables were full so I wandered upstairs. There she was again, leaning against a wall, watching the people at the upstairs tables. I didn’t want her to disappear again, so I boldly kept my eyes on her, and to my surprise, she boldly stared back. I decided to speak to her and she did not move away as I approached.

The conversation was…disturbing. She told me some wicked things…and while I have no idea why a stranger would want to lie to me, I can’t possibly believe her revelations were truth. She knew my name, my real name, Ophelia. She said we were related, but not by the parents I thought were mine. She said the parents that raised me were not my birth parents, that I’d been adopted by them from the Mitra Temple when I was a toddler. I…remember…vaguely…spending time there, playing in the garden. But I was sure I was there because perhaps my mother brought me with her when she had come to worship or to do some service for the sisters there.

She told me terrible things about my birth, things I do not want to believe. Still, I could not get over the likeness between us. She is little darker than me, her skin tans a bit where my flesh is forever pale. My eyes are bluer green, sometimes wholly blue, while hers are a yellowish green, olive like. When the light catches my eyes I’m told my eyes shine sky-blue. When the light catches hers they glow yellow. She wears her hair long like me, in a long braid high on her head, but her hair is very, very yellow where mine is white…but still…our bone structure is the same, our lips shaped the same though hers are a little fuller. When she turned, gawds, she even has my big round ass. I could not help but notice. I’d been teased by my little brother my whole life about the size of my ass. Thankfully Terathul prefers to call it “luscious.”

Could we be related? Could we be cousins? Half-sisters? She didn’t say how closely we were related, nor if it was through the Sister of Mitra that bore me or if it was by the Priest that sired me…if that story is even true.

I know sometimes I can be quite naïve about the things going on around me, I think I prefer it that way…I need to be able to continue to think Gideonn is not a mass murderer collecting undead to build that palace of his he talks of. I need to cling to the idea that Khaiti does not set fire to innocent people, and that Jena and Druce and Tacia don’t…I just can’t think on it. And I can’t dwell on the lies this woman told me today, about my birth, about her being related to me.

It’s as though everyone that touches me is compelled to convince me to accept that everything around me is evil and foul and tainted, including my own conception. I refuse to believe it. I will cling to the goodness around me, to the happiness. And I will pray that the child I am bearing is a good child and not the demon I fear it will be.

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