by Ruth Davis Hays 2016
Having made a swift retreat from Daviel’s room after a violent encounter, ‘Khiall locks himself away to deal with his confusion over the fervor.
Alone in his monastic cell, D’harromarrie’khiall stared at his wobbly reflection in a polished brass washbasin. The Blessed Fathers did not allow the acolytes mirrors.
He stared most pointedly at his ears. The tips had grown out after their last clipping, but were far from their full height even with the healing he had received from the Fathers. Cut and scarred ears had not be the area of concentration. The healing prayers had been for his life and the genital wound inflicted by Solomen.
Yet, as he placed the bowl down on the tiny wooden desk, he pondered the tugging connection between the two body parts. Both of which were still suffering a persistent throb from Daviel’s touch.
Years ago, when he would tussle with Laure in friendly competition, she would consistently attack his fae ears in order to gain the upper hand. Her gentle, teasing touches would tickle, rendering him immobile as he would defend the tender lobes. It was an unfair advantage, he would forever insist to her, but she would simply kiss his cheek and declare herself the winner.
What Daviel had evoked was different. Far different.
Glancing at his fingernails, he caught the sight and scent of Daviel’s blood. The urge to taste it shook him to his core. What was he?
Fae did not view their carnality the same as these repressed humans. His faerlin mother had spoken of festivals and long nights of frolicking in the Fae Wood where all manner of sexuality was enjoyed and even venerated. All but one. Bloodletting. That taboo vice carried a heavy cost. Exile, and at its most heinous, execution. It was something not to be tolerated.
What was he that the sight of crimson blood splashed across Daviel’s face had given him such arousal? Did he wish harm on the poor saphien? Did he want to mangle him further? Or did the erotic directness of the acolyte’s massage on his ears uncoil some deep-seated vileness bred into him? Was this what it meant to be a changeling?
The faerlins had called him flesh-eater. The saphiens called him daemon.
He pressed his hands over his ears to deaden the pulse. It was driving him mad. The lascivious prickle was sparking images that could serve nothing but to remind him of what he had lost. Tender attentions from those that loved him had been replaced by molestations suffered from craggy monks and from the curiosity of his accomplices. He forced memories of the latter ones to fade, desiring to recall the soft luxury of the former.
The exercise proved strange and difficult. Faces mixed, spoken words overlapped until his fists struck out at the wall to break the spell with a shock of pain. His body alight, even his bleeding knuckles did little to stop the flow. Instinctively sucking in the scratches, in fact enhanced his desire with the copper tang on his tongue.
Frustration boiled into a stew where bubbled an assortment of adolescent impulses. His body and mind were ripping in all directions. He wanted to scream. Struggling to control the sensations each vision wrought, his tension as tight as a quaitar string plucked between lust and anger.
Reaching down, the ready presence he found between his thighs was no surprise. There was simply one solution to coax his madness back into hiding. Laying his head against the cool wood of the tabletop, he bit hard into his lip and pleasured himself with rough insistence.
The chaos of beckoning lovers inside his head blended into a cacophony as he passed the sweet moment of surrender and clutched the table leg with his free hand. The wood creaked to the point of breaking, his nails etching deep divots into it.
‘Khiall flopped off his chair to his knees, grateful for the cool touch of the stone floor. After several moments, his mind clear once again, he removed his nightshirt and kicked it to the door.
Sliding between the stiff linens, he let exhaustion warm his muscles. Lying in the dark of the cell, he felt his skin tingle, cheering to each brush of fabric or air. He experienced none of the shame of which the other acolytes spoke. He was filled with only drowsy elation. That was the blessing given him by his heritage, whether he had grown up in the Wood or not. He needed neither guilt or excuse for his pleasure. He was Fae.
As sleep slipped over him, he pondered with a curious smile whose face had flashed in his mind the moment before his climax. Had it been Laure, Daviel, Sarrah, or his mother?
Grunting with lifeless humor, he decided that was an issue to tackle at some other time.
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