Jewel of Lust Ch. 02

*NOTE TO THE READER: STRONGLY ADVISED YOU READ PART ONE IN ADVANCE*

*

--You will find yourself compelled by the rite of Spring--

At last, the drought broke and the heavens overflowed, and down the rain poured over a hungry soil and its withering people. For eight days the storm had refused to yield, and by the ninth the ground had taken all the drink she could and began to puddle. Puddles soon became pools, pools turned to streams, and the streams gave way to rivers which dug their beds into the village roadways. Crops in their first wisping sprouts of life were drowning. Farmers only recently lamenting the drought, now bemoaned fate's cruel reversal.

Guy was for the first time, hopeful. After his coupling with Lila, her tale of rituals and fertile lands, and virgins equally so, he feared it was his loins who listened so rapt, and that reason had given way to longing. A newfound desire ravaged his body toting an incessant craving. But with the sudden passing of what would be remembered as the Great Drought, Guy was inspired. Could it be, he wondered, that I part of this miracle? An instrument of a God I once knew? His answer came after two weeks of ever-darkening clouds that refused to part, making his hope for such things as miracles seem as childish as all those years ago. The torrent--a newly assembled device of torture for an already tortured land--was but another twist in the long, dark tunnel toward despair through which the village continued bound to fall.

The Lord of the House, Charlotte, had not returned. Flooding had made the roads nearly impassable, and though they received word she was en route, the going was understandably slow. Business at the House had not slowed. If anything, despair only made the town's inhabitants more likely to scrape together what they could for such diversion. It was through Charlotte's cunning that the House remained stocked with small food items for customers. Using the handsome profits garnered from her meticulous management technique, the House began function by dual means as a brothel, and something of a lunch counter. Lua put the girls to work in the kitchen, starting every morning at dawn, teaching them how to bake breads and simple pastries. Sunflower seeds were in cheap abundance and bowls of the nut adorned each room, further incentive for the purchase of a lady's exclusive company. As early as 10 a.m., men were led to the House by their loins and the smell of baking bread, both of which are resistant to soaking rain.

Guy had cleverly avoided a potential crisis when the yard around the House threatened to become a mud pit and dash the Lord, Charlotte's designs of having a cleanly patron. He erected a plank walkway from the bath house to the steps of the Diamond Mine so that men, fresh from their baths, could fjord the soupy field. The walkway consisted of long planks, held aloft by a patchwork of cris-crossing wooden fence posts driven in past the mud to the firm soil below. Guy resolved to make improvements on the structure if the rains continued through Spring, but for now it suited as a means of dry passage.

The bath house had become an underground success. No man spoke aloud his approval of its invigorating effects for fear of mockery, but the bath's popularity soon became evident as men began erecting similar structures on their own properties. Until Charlotte had arrived with her demands for hygiene, bathing had been an afterthought. She managed to transform it into a luxury. And despite the recent presence of other facilities popping up throughout the village, none offered as refreshing an experience as the one operated by Lua--with her rejuvenating, nasal purifying mineral salts and constant care to keep the waters piping hot. That combined with the companionship of the ladies and the promise of a hunk of bread or pastry, the brothel was threatening to become the most lucrative endeavor in the village.

Guy had been dispatched to purchase baking supplies and to send for the doctor to administer his weekly checkups. He stepped down off the stairs, mud filling his boots, and waded through the mess toward the center of town. Men trudged hither and yawn, some carrying heavy wooden spikes and sandbags, others helping them to shore up buildings and divert the flow of water. It was quiet work, the only sound being the constant patter of fat raindrops and the occasional dull thud of a spike being hammered into place.

With some difficulty, Guy stepped up onto the porch of the general market, nearly losing a boot to the muddy wallow from whence he came. He stomped hard on the porch until the bulk of mud clinging to his lower legs relinquished its grasp. A young boy sitting on a stool nearby with a shovel between his legs, slowly rose to his feet and sauntered over to shove the pile of muck off the porch.

"Thank you, son," Guy said, smiling at him. The boy never so much as glanced up. Instead he made a somber return to the stool to await his next patron. Guy stepped through the aisles gathering goods, collecting no notice from the other customers. He did take note of a certain conversation that held the undivided attention of all those present, the shop owner at the center carrying the dialogue from precipice to precipice atop his high, agitated voice.

"...and what do you think's gonna happen then?" There were a few murmurs, and the shop owner answered himself. "Tax and land disputes. Some high-handed folk come in tellin us we gonna have elections 'fore the turn of the year?" Guy finished shopping and stood beside the group of four men and two women at the register. The shop owner, ignorant of his armload of groceries, continued ranting.

"And who's this feller they sent us who s'posed to put us all in line?"

"Judge from somewhere, s'what I heard," came the reply from one of the disgruntled onlookers. "Says we're gonna have us a whole bunch of new laws, and some such."

"And 'fore you know it," screeched the shop owner, "won't be able to lift yer leg or take a piss without his say so." The murmurs and mumbles intoned in agreement.

Just then a woman in high boots and riding pants entered, and their stares immediately fell upon her. An uneasy hush left the patter of rain on the corrugated tin roof to occupy the breathless silence. The woman removed her rain bonnet letting a thick, black mane tumble down over her shoulders. She made a quick gesture to a young woman who entered behind her, and the youth took a hasty step and disappeared down the nearest aisle. She let out an easy breath and leveled her eyes on the suspicious mob at the register. Her pale, white face and coal black eyes cast off an air of dignity. The very grace with which she stood heralded her presence as exotic, foreign. Unwanted. The silence became tedious. Thus, the woman's debut having cut short the shop owner's discourse, the group of men and women quickly dispersed.

The owner muttered an indiscernible lament as he wrapped Guy's goods in heavy burlap. Guy paid the man, and for uncertainty, asked for the doctor's address.

"End of this alley," the man replied, steadying a slitted gaze on the strange woman who was now hunched over a bucket of dried fruits. Guy thanked the man and stepped outside. He unrolled a tanned hide from around his waist and tightly bound the goods to preserve them, glancing over at the young man who was now dozing. He noticed a pile of mud and took pity on the boy. Guy took the shovel and scooped the mud off the porch, before gently replacing the tool at the boy's side. He took a deep breath, surveying the water-logged street, stepped off the porch into the muck, and staggered up the alleyway. He was unaware that through the store window someone was watching.

"Will do, Doctor," said Guy. He stored the doctor's message for Lua in his mind as he closed the door behind him, and traipsed once again up the street toward the main thoroughfare. As he rounded the corner of Main he was intercepted by the woman from the market, along with her young companion whose arms were weighted down with groceries.

"Mr. Thompson, manager of the House of ill repute, in the flesh." Guy tightened his jaw before his mouth was allowed to fall agape. His astonished gaze betrayed him, for the woman began to laugh.

"I am only joking. But of course, I know who you are. Your employer has garnered quite the reputation in her current endeavor. And viola, there you stand in the limelight cast by her ever-growing, glowing aura." She suppressed another chuckle and continued. "Difficult not to know you, Mr. Thompson. Why, just this morning I was thinking how I should like to run into you. And . . . here you are. Do you believe in coincidence, Mr. Thompson?" Guy was at a loss for words. Who was this woman? She knew a great deal for someone he had never laid eyes on. And what did she mean by the Lord, Charlotte's current endeavor?

"I am sorry," he replied, squinting his eyes as if trying to remember. "I feel as if I might have forgotten just how we met." Beneath her rain bonnet a grin formed, giving the woman an almost childlike appearance. It may have been the rain, but her eyes seemed to dance with a certain playful mischief.

"You are no fool, Mr. Thompson. I had hoped that were the case. My name is Camilla Divine. Please, if you will follow me to my residence I should like to explain." She looked up, the rain speckling her cheeks, then recast her gaze on Guy and continued. "We ought make haste, before we are soaked to the bone by this merciless weather event. Come now, I live only at the end of this lane." Guy hesitated. A woman inviting a stranger to her home? Curious, indeed.

"I beg your pardon, ma'am," Guy asserted. "I have got to get back as soon as possible." Camilla's expression did not wither.

"Going to melt, are you?" Guy hesitated.

"No, it's just--"

"Come now. You wouldn't make a poor woman carry her burden through rain and mud all the way home, would you?" Guy glanced over at the woman's companion. He imagined she grew weary, unlike the woman who spoke of burden. He could not shake this feeling of foreboding.

"I thought you said you lived only at the end of this lane." The woman's expression showed mock defeat.

"Now you're only being cruel." Camilla Divine clutched at her slicker. "Come Tesela." Her companion lurched forward and sloshed haphazardly toward the hope of refuge. She tilted her head and inclined it at Guy. He watched her wade away. And without warning, his mouth opened, the words all but tumbling out.

"Ma'am, I have been terribly rude. I should like to help you, after all." Divine and her companion did not wait, nor did they turn to acknowledge Guy as he sloshed through the muck after them. As he drew along even with them, however, the young woman thrust two large burlap sacks into his free hand. Then the three of them trudged up the street in silent reverence to a garrulous storm.

The house had been built only quite recently. Guy marveled at the tight carpentry, as he listened for, but did not hear a single creaking joint while they climbed up the steps. Camilla loosened the straps on her boots and gracefully stepped out of them, onto the porch. She opened the door, took the bags and set them inside. She bade Guy and Tesela stay put until a moment later, when she returned carrying a pale of water in each hand.

"Remove your boots, you two, and come in." She did not wait for them, but instead turned and disappeared once more into the house. They slipped out of their clodded boots and rinsed the mud from their feet. Tesela opened the door and waited for Guy to step inside before closing it again. Camilla met them as a completely different woman, wearing a long silver and green gown that slimmed impossibly at the waist, its precise snugness outlining fantastically her every curve, all the way up to her softly sloping shoulders and elegant neck.

"Camilla," came a ragged voice from upstairs. The composure that seemed ever-fixed upon Camilla Divine's face seemed, for the moment, shattered.

"Tesela," she said sharply, "see to mother. Pray, tell her she must rest." The young servant rushed to fulfill the latest of her employer's desires. "Come, Mr. Thompson. Let us get acquainted, shall we?"

"I beg your pardon, Ms. Divine. If your mother is not well, I can send for the doctor."

"I am afraid she is beyond the aide of medicine. "Let us not speak of such troubles." Guy hesitated, feeling more uneasy than ever.

"Um, forgive me. I really should not have strayed from my task. I ought to return now." Guy saw in the woman's eyes a flash of sadness. But somewhere beneath it, a visage of despair.

"Very well, Mr. Thompson, but allow me to show you something before you rush out into that dreadful gale." Guy permitted her to lead him into an adjoining room that turned out to be an impressive and rather sizeable study. It reminded him of a smaller version of the library near his childhood home. It was filled, floor-to-ceiling with books of varying thickness. In the center of the room stood a large desk. A tall, slim window cast the ominous glow of the stormy morning upon the desk's lacquered surface. Guy stepped past Camilla Divine and she shut the door behind them. He turned slowly, staring in awe at the marvelous collection of literature, the ancient smells of which he drew in through his nose and felt a powerful nostalgia.

"It's something, isn't it?" remarked Camilla. Guy shook his head, marveling.

"Truly, but your home has not been finished more than a week. How--"

"Keen observation, Mr. Thompson. It has been a relentless week. Unpacking, categorizing, stacking. My poor dear girl, I thought she might keel over and die."

"Your servant, Tesela?"

"She is my daughter." Guy spun about on his heels and stared openly at Camilla. The veil of youth was suddenly thrown back with the sudden awareness of her offspring, whom he had met and regarded as being a woman close to his own age. And yet, upon Camilla the years had been quite kind.

"Keep staring at me that way, Mr. Thompson, and you may soon find yourself in offense." Guy dropped his head quickly.

"I-I apologize," he stammered.

"Posh," Camilla replied. She stepped toward him until mere inches separated them. "You need only ask." Guy did not want to seem unkind, but felt uncomfortable with this most unusual behavior. He did, however, acknowledge a growing attraction felt for this comely woman. With some measure of controlled calm, he raised his head and took her in. The only hint of her years escaped through her enchanting eyes and at the corners of her mouth where wisdom, stress, fear and tribulation had placed creases, like thorns of caution on a neighbor's rosebush.

"Do you find me so unbearable, is that why your face reddens?" Her voice was soft, her breath warm. Guy felt his mouth going dry. Felt the moisture drawn from his lips, not by nervousness, though he was, but by a thirst she had put inside him. He drew a breath, and could taste her. Just as on the night with Lila, how he drank from the sweet perfume of her skin.

He bridged the distance separating them and yet they did not touch. He breathed the taste of rain on her body. First, her hair which she unfurled, letting the long, dark curls cascade like a waterfall over the smooth blades of her back. Then, at each of the damp places beneath the silver and green gown. On her hands where the blood pulsed toward the fingertips causing them to tingle. And along her spine where a bead of sweat trickled downward to the small of her back. At last, in the thatch between her thighs where his taste was most insistent. All of this and more, he could taste on the single breath that bore her scent.

Camilla gathered handfuls of the gown and began to draw the hem up over her legs. Guy crumpled to his knees before her, plowing forward until his mouth mashed against her bare crotch. Camilla fell back against the large desk as Guy gorged himself on the hot, damp folds of flesh, his stubbly cheeks chafing her smooth inner thighs. She leaned back on her elbows, letting her gown fall and cradling the back of his head through the fabric, as if fearful he might lose his way. Her breathing became labored as his tongue swabbed the sensitive inner sanctum, and she hastened to push him away and to force him closer at the same time. He drank from her like a man whose thirst and whose lust are competing to kill him.

Again and again, his tongue sought to bury itself irretrievably within her, his neck craning to gain depth. His was such an angle that his jutting chin repeatedly grazed her anus, causing her thigh muscles to convulse as she roosted upon his face.

"Yes, darling!" Camilla cried, undulating her hips to accommodate the young man's noisy binge. He grabbed at her bottom, gathering the tight gluteal flesh in his hands and bringing her vulva harder still toward his insatiable mouth. As Camilla threw her head back becoming dizzy and drunk of the rapturous sensations, she swooned and collapsed in a heap to the floor. Her dislodged consort emerged from beneath the wealth of fabric, his face glistening with the moisture of his internment. She watched with satisfaction as Guy pulled himself onto her body, his breath hot, his body heavy, eyes consumed with incorruptible lust.

They met face-to-face long enough for Camilla to taste herself on his lips, to suck their mixed moisture from his tongue. He writhed on her, his chest crushing her breasts while he struggled to free himself from his pants. He fumbled and unzipped, pushing the gown's hem aside. Camilla beheld in his eyes the fixated intent to penetrate her, the first slap of his member as it fell heavy against her thigh. His hand cradling it, rough knuckles over her tender flesh, guiding it up the divide. Sliding it over her lips, his buttocks clenching, a quick thrust. She grimaces. He is too high. Slicks the head, flicks and fists her moisture over his throbbing shaft. Again, this time lower. She arches her pelvis to help him, and no sooner than the head pushes through, does he sink himself deep with a satisfied groan.

She is full, painfully full at first. An uncomfortable pressure that lights the depths of her loins. His tool throbs, pushing up on her abdomen. She relaxes. The nostalgia of such fullness sweeps over her in sweaty waves. Her pores become adrift in moisture, her body open. Hungry and welcoming. He draws his piston back and she can lower her eyes and look at him again. Can remember what it is like. He is not the animal. She is. He plunges again, pursuing his greater worth, easier this time. He is slick with her copious offering. By her. From her. She takes him easily. Watches him climbing. Climbing her, climbing her chest, the walls of her womb. Clinging to her. It is her turn to climb.

Camilla clutches the young man's bottom, her mind and entire body concentrating on the euphoria of sensation pulsing through the blessed flesh of her womanhood. He anoints her face and nape with hard, passionless kisses. She focuses on and feels every fibrous inch of his youth raking her nerves toward capitulation. He lunges, sweeping her body over the dusty wood, her breasts rising and falling in time with his concentrated thrusts. He drives his pelvis down on hers, an endless slap slap where skin meets skin. Her tail bone digs through flesh into the floor, the pain from which entwines itself to ecstasy and catapults her toward the raw pleasure she fervently pursues.

She sinks her fingers into the soft flesh of his lower back, feeling at their tips his muscles pulsing and tightening. His breath is hot on her neck, his groans a desperate sensuous chorus as he impales her to yet greater depths and his testicles clap at her swollen fleshy slit, where they are bathed in the nectar that spills from her cloven cleft and trickles down her clenching crack, wetting the floor.