Four's The Charm

"Innocence taken by innocence," Moira explained. "It's central to what we do here, Tayne."

He had no idea what she was talking about.

"Lylia's maidenhead can be a most potent offering to the god, Tayne, but it must be given -- and taken -- in innocence. Only purity may claim it and only from purity may it be offered to Him. Only then will the offering have power. Do you understand now, Tayne?"

The boy tried to shake his head, failed.

"No," he croaked.

"Let me put it this way. Men and women produce energy during the act of love. It can be merely lusty energy -- pleasing and positive, but transitory, not significant. That's fine; the god and the goddess created us to please each other and they are pleased by even that offering. But such mere physical energy is no more important than the scent of one lonely flower.

"On the other hand, if properly channeled, sexual union can produce enormous spiritual  power, Tayne, power very much like that possessed -- and offered -- by the god and the goddess. It's amazingly potent."

The girl was losing him. What god? What goddess?

"So?"

"So, the first act of love between innocents can be incredibly powerful if properly harnessed. In our case, today, that kind of energy, that level of power, is what is required to ordain a priestess into His service, to free her from her everyday limits."

Tayne's eyes instinctively flipped to Lylia, patiently kneeling in front of the altar. "You mean...?"

"Yes," Moira affirmed. "You and she. Here. Today."

"And if I refuse?" the boy rasped.

Her smile faded, just a little. "You won't."

His eyes flickered down to his paralyzed body. "Can't."

"You will be."

"Moira," Lylia called from the altar. "I can sense Him. It's time."

Moira stretched out her hand, caressed Tayne's jaw.

"You'll see," she said, before returning to kneel beside Lylia.

The two women suddenly bowed together, put their heads to the ground, their arms pointed towards the altar.

Tayne lifted his eyes to a rustling of leaves on one side of the grove. When he looked back, a robed figure stood immediately behind the altar, one he knew  had not been there an instant before.

The being's black cloak was long enough that Tayne couldn't see the its end behind the altar. Unconstrained by fibula or pin, the cloak merely hung unfastened over his head and shoulders, leaving his body, legs and forearms bare in the soft light. There could be no doubt of his sex.

Short but with vast shoulders, the figure was massively muscled, his biceps alone being as large as one of Tayne's thighs. While his body was now covered with white, twisted scars and the ropey veins of old age, his immense strength was obvious, more a force of nature than a mere man's brawn.

A drawn hood hid his face, but failed to contain the white beard falling across his chest. The body hair Tayne could see was abundant, curly and coarse, partly black but mostly white.

Clutched in one age-specked hand was an oak staff carved its full length into a long spiral.

Tayne stared openly now, realizing that the man was entirely covered in tattoos. Every bit of skin the boy could see was overlaid with a scroll-work of arcane symbols. Even the heavy cock and low-hanging balls were tattooed and Tayne inwardly shuddered at the thought of that ordeal. His eyes grew wider as the symbols seemed to change, to shift in front of his eyes, writhing and flowing across dark skin.

Terrified, Tayne struggled to force his body to recoil, to flee. He failed, couldn't move a muscle.

It was clear to him that the creature behind the altar must be an adept of the old forest gods. Tayne had been taught that that cult had been exterminated hundreds of years before. 'Cauterized' was the word his father had used, his description dragging it out into multiple syllables: "Cot...her...ized."

Their temple stronghold had been the oldest structure in the kingdom; not once in the memory of man had it ever been taken. No matter - it was, this time. Memories were long that day, recent outrage searing and forgiveness impossible.

Once the last ditch had been filled, once the last wall had been breached, once the last spell had been overcome, once the barons' desperate men finally poured through the breach, every living creature in the stronghold had been slaughtered - priests and acolytes and domestics and doxies and drudges and livestock and caged birds and the very fish in the ponds -- all of them. The gardens and dwellings were burned, the scorched walls razed and salt sown over the rubble. Rather than risk polluting the rest of society with their unholy memories, even the hapless captives fettered in the grim dungeons, awaiting sacrifice to the old gods, even they had been slain - albeit with quick, merciful blows and decent burial granted.

Most of them, those who could still talk, had blessed their slayers.

It had taken the barons' combined levies three weeks to overturn the circles of massive standing stones surrounding the place. Children to this day frightened each other with lurid tales of the men who went mad toppling those stones -- and of the inward-facing circle of hard-souled archers mercilessly cutting down those attempting to flee their duty. The high curse had been laid on the bone-strewn place and on any who might ever dare visit there in future.

Yet, clearly, here was one such and Tayne's eyes flashed in dread to the bronze knife on the altar.

"Moira, Lylia" the figure intoned. "You have done well." The voice was a pleasant tenor, surprisingly high for such a taurine figure.

The two women lifted, sat back on their knees. "Welcome, Lord Murtagh," they intoned together.

The hood shifted fractionally, towards Tayne. "Is this the boy?"

"Yes, my Lord," Lylia replied.

"Good." He moved with silent steps to the front of the altar, turned to face outward and raised his arms in brief salute to the sun before lowering them again.

"Lylia, before the Rite can proceed, the grove must be warded." His arm waved at the edges of the grove.

The boy's eyes followed the gesture. To his horror, the bushes and trees enclosing the grove seemed to have faded, becoming as insubstantial as the rising plume of incense from the censor. The glade was instead surrounded by looming shadow figures, distorted, obscene -- and hungry. Tayne could not quite define their silent forms; his eyes were unable to latch onto one long enough to examine it. Whatever they were -- the gods before the old gods, perhaps -- they wanted access to this place -- and to him. The thought chilled him.

The two women rose gracefully. Moira moved to stand, almost familiarly, beside Murtagh. A solid arm reached over and clasped her by the waist, pulled her body to his.

Lylia stepped confidently to the very centre of the grove, closed her eyes for a moment. Opening them again and pulling her shoulders back, she began to wave her left hand in the air in front of her. To Tayne's astonishment, lines of fire began to trail from her moving fingertips, weaving together to form an intricate design in the air. When the girl lowered her hand, the web remained, pulsing slightly before expanding slowly to the edges of the clearing. Stopping, it came to rest there like a glowing fence.

"Ah," Murtagh said softly. "That was well done."

She turned, bowed slightly at the compliment. "Thank you, my lord."

The glowing barrier slowly faded. Tayne's eyes moved from her, back to the edge of the forest. To his relief, the dark figures had vanished, chased off by Lylia's magic. Only the trees remained now.

He looked back at Lylia, her naked, lithe body standing upright, her chin up in obvious pride. I've known her since we were children,   he thought to himself. I've never seen anything even suggesting this. Who is she?

Murtagh released Moira and the two women stood together in front of him. His hooded head turned towards them.

"Are you ready?"

The two nodded in reply.

Saying nothing more, Murtagh strode to a tussock of grass slightly in front and to one side of the altar, directly opposite the frozen Tayne. His hands sweeping his cloak out of the way, he sat down, his body bare but his head and face still cloaked.

He raised one hand, made a gesture. From somewhere came the haunting sound of a pan flute, joined a moment later by a single drum. Even as Tayne's eyes searched in vain for the musicians, the disembodied music slowly grew louder, more commanding.

The two girls began to circle Murtagh, their steps in time with the music. Impassive, his figure sat unmoving as they circled him. The two spun, arms rising over sleek thighs, across flat bellies, over firm breasts, up to over their heads, again and again. Entranced, Tayne watched as they danced, long hair swinging with their fluid movements.

He blinked as Moira broke their circling and, Lylia following, skipped lightly across the glade towards him. The two repeated their steps around the boy, first simply circling, then spinning. Their control over their bodies was amazing, he thought, speaking of endless practice. The sight of their naked forms swirling so close to him set his mind seething.

Murtagh raised one hand, gestured towards the altar. As he did, the rising plume of incense divided, blew towards he and Tayne, circled them in a cloud of fragrant fumes. The rough, musky fragrance surrounded the boy, filling his nostrils with the scent of ancient enchantment. To his embarrassment, he found his manhood swelling, pushing along his naked thighs like an advancing serpent as it grew more solid.

The others could hardly have missed it. Murtagh's expression could not be seen under his hood, but Moira's eyes sparkled. Her gaze lingered on it each time her dance put her in front of the boy. Lylia didn't stare as openly, but the boy could see her smile.

The two spun away from Tayne, again began circling Murtagh. Flickering beams of sunlight penetrating the trees highlighted the girls' bodies. Their hair whipped around them, casting shadows on their shoulders, thighs and breasts as they turned.

The boy was hard now, harder than he could remember having been before. Beyond the dancers, Tayne could see that Murtagh was also erect.

The girls straightened, twirled around Tayne, their arms outstretched, before shifting back to Murtagh.

The two knelt before Murtagh, one on either side, leaving Tayne a clear view as their hands saluted and teased Murtagh's massive organ, tracing its length and bulbous head with the softest possible strokes, over and over.

Then they were kneeling in front of Tayne. Smiling eyes locked onto his as soft hands ran up and down his own cock, stroking, inflaming, worshiping. Unable to move, the boy could still feel and the two women's efforts were fanning his hunger beyond anything he could have imagined.

Another cloud of incense surrounded his head, filling him with need and passion. His balls felt enormous, his shaft like rock.

Tayne looked at Lylia. Her happy eyes were watching his, her smile as sweet, as enticing, as any he could ever have imagined. Seeing his gaze, she swept the tip her tongue along her lips and Tayne's heart almost exploded.

Then Moira was gone, back to Murtagh, to begin running her whole body over the god's. The god laughed with pleasure as, sinuous as a snake, she curled about him, thighs and breasts, bum and belly caressing his skin. Tayne hissed as Lylia began to mimic Moira's actions, running her perfect skin over Tayne's body, caressing him with every part of her own. Petrified, the boy could not even smile as the softness of her breasts swept his face.

The music had changed. Before it was calling, enticing. Now it was insistent, pressing. It throbbed in Tayne's head and groin and heart; it seized his attention, demanded his action, his participation. Frustrated beyond belief, the young man could only sit and watch passively as Lylia gave him a last fond caress before rising gracefully and rejoining Moira and Murtagh.

The robed figure rose. His hand released its grip on his staff. To Tayne's wonder, it remained standing upright on the soft grass.

Murtagh shrugged his shoulders under his cloak. Still hanging over his head, it fell off his shoulders, leaving his face still hidden but his craggy body totally bare. He stretched his arms out and the two women slid in beside him to be clasped to him. Breasts and stomachs pressed against him; sleek legs curled about his own. Slender hands ran over his arms, shoulders, chest and thighs. Tayne could see a drop of liquid oozing from the slit of his rigid pole protruding out from between their flawless hips.

Both girls looked up, as if trying to see Murtagh's hidden face. For a moment, Lylia turned her head, took a quick glimpse towards Tayne. Her eyes were shining, her smile elated.

Murtagh hugged both girls, released them. Laughing, they spun away, twirling, coming to a stop between the two men, in the middle of the glade. There they stopped, half a pace apart, facing each other. Their hands came out, came to rest on each other's shoulders and the two leaned in, their lips meeting, soft as rose petals, sweet as honey.

Tayne stared as Moira's hands swept over the body of his betrothed, down from Lylia's shoulders, pausing at her waist, slim fingers flowing between flawless buttocks. Lylia stood still at first, accepting the pleasure so openly offered. Then her hands came up and began to caress the taller woman, knowing, seeking, giving in turn.

The two began to twirl slowly around the each other. The music started again -- Tayne hadn't noticed it had stopped -- this time slower, more sensual.

The women danced now for each other's arousal. Their hands swept over and around the each other's frame and face, never stopping, lightly drifting over the other's skin. The frozen Tayne could see the affect the dance was having on Lylia. Her bosom began to lift and fall as her breathing sped up. Her body was covered in a fine sheen of perspiration. Her eyes were closed and Tayne could see her biting her lower lip. To his surprise, the boy could smell her arousal even over the still-drifting incense. He could see Moira gasp as her swollen nipples were teased by the smaller girl.

Murtagh clapped his hands and the music changed again, becoming slower, more rhythmic, gentler. At the change, the girls separated.

Moira knelt gracefully in front of Murtagh, facing away from him, her knees spread wide. She lowered her torso so that her head was resting on her forearms on the ground. Murtagh stepped to behind her, his dark member swaying with each heavy step. He knelt and seized her hips, thick fingers dimpling young flesh. Without further ado, his strong hands drew the girl's slick labia back over his tattooed cock, impaling her. There was a short frisson of pain on Moira's face as the mighty thing filled her to the bottom of her soft depths. It passed rapidly, to be replaced by a look of pure pleasure.

Tayne and Lylia watched together as Murtagh began sliding his length in and out of the girl. Tayne's own cock was as hard as he could have ever imagined, its crown almost crimson with the blood pounding through it. His nipples and lips felt swollen; his balls ached, laden with lust.

Lylia's skin remained flushed, her eyes wide. Her excited eyes flipped back and forth between Tayne and the spectacle in front of her. Moira had risen up from her elbows, her weight resting now on her hands as she bucked backwards to meet each of Murtagh's thrusts. Her face was almost incandescent with pleasure and passion; she began to give a low cry every time her bum was slapped by the god's abdomen.

Silently, Lylia rose and stepped behind the altar, returning in an instant with a two pottery cups.

Holding one, she approached Murtagh, who, without stopping the thrusting of his hips, reached out with one hand to take it. He lifted it inside the shadow of the cloak's hood. A moment later, nodding in thanks, he returned the cup to the girl before again clutching Moira's hips with both hands to continue his animated pounding.

Leaving Murtagh, Lylia knelt beside Moira. Under the buffeting of Murtagh's cock, the latter could not possibly have lifted a hand to receive it; smiling, the smaller girl held the cup to her lips so that she could drink. Even so, when the cup was lowered, Tayne could see spilled wine covering her lips and chin. Lylia laughed lightly, produced a cloth and cleaned the girl's face, being careful not to disturb the ochre stripes. Moira, on hands and knees, her full breasts swaying beneath her, gasped something in a low voice. Tayne couldn't hear it, but Lylia broke out in delighted laughter and even Murtagh gave a low growl of amusement.

Moira's cries increased as the god sped up his lunging. The music had stopped entirely. Tayne's senses were flooding him with sensations. It was now as if he could feel every snippet of breeze, hear each individual leaf move, smell each individual flower. Over it all was the smell of sex and the growing sound of Moira's moans and cries.

Then Lylia knelt beside him, placed the second cup on the ground.

"I love you, Tayne," she whispered. Love me? he thought. Then why...?"

"You'll see soon," she whispered, his question obvious. She turned from him and said nothing more, simply kneeling back and watching Murtagh pound into her friend's sex. The look on her face was a curious mix of serenity and lust.

Tayne gasped as he her hand touched his thigh. It slid slowly, gently, fingertips barely touching, up and down his leg, traced behind his taut sac, stroked the length of his cock, circled its head.

Moira's cries became almost continuous under Murtagh's loving assault, rising suddenly to a great howl of joy. Her arms collapsed and her chest and shoulders fell to the grass again. And still Murtagh continued to drive into her. The sound of his belly slapping against Moira's buttocks filled the clearing.

Looking down at the back and bum of the dark girl impaled on him, he clutched her hips harder, drove still more fiercely into her soft depths, His immense arms pulled her softness back and forth over his cock as his hips drove forward with increasing force. The tall girl's buttocks rippled at each impact.

Without pausing, the hooded head turned towards Lylia and nodded briefly.

Lylia held the cup to Tayne's mouth, but had to shake his shoulder to get his attention.

"Here," she said. "Drink."

The boy found he was incredibly thirsty, gulped the contents, swallowed. The liquid was sweet enough, but thin, tasting of honey and unknown herbs.

"Soon," the girl promised. "Soon, Tayne. Remember that I love you."

The heavy figure across from them slowed, shuddered, became still. Tayne saw him sag slightly, heard his ragged breathing from across the glade. After a long ten-count, Murtagh pulled his length out of the prostrate girl before rising to his feet. His slippery cock swayed in the air in front of him. Leaning down, he offered a hand to Moira. Taking it, she stood, albeit shakily.

Tayne felt one of his fingers jerk. He found he could turn his head a little and looked down at Lylia. She was smiling up at him, expectant, thrilled. Her eyes were filled with happiness.

"I love you, Tayne. Be brave for me. Be strong for me." Her eyes dropped momentarily to his manhood, now almost quivering in his need. Her soft hand slid again down his inner thigh, squeezed gently. His cock twitched in response and the girl laughed in delight.

Murtagh was speaking softly to the trembling Moira. Tayne could not hear the words, but understood a question was being asked.

The naked girl, her hair tousled and her eyes filled with happy tears, nodded. Murtagh laughed now too, took her by the hand and led her to the tussock where he had been originally seated for the dance. He sat down, his cock still hard and purple in the sun. Moira stood beside him, her hand in his. There was an elated but almost dazed expression on her face.