“Now rest there a moment,” she said, and disappeared behind a veil of incense smoke.
Lot fell back against the cushion. What was wrong with him today? He'd bantered about with the witch before. Always he asserted himself. His god. And the laws of Abraham. Never before had their encounters been so-domestic. Was that it? He should leave. Now. Before “Here we are,” she came back. In her hands a full washtub. So slight, this one. How could she hold such a thing? Was there someone with her? Was he not seeing? Lot wondered. The wine he'd drunk. It sat next to the strange rice. Next to it. He'd had one of those bottles. A giver of visions. He'd not wanted to have it again. But could not throw it away.
Had he poisoned himself?
“Hold a moment,” the priestess said. “I'll take the grime from you, but not get it on these garments.
She twirled slightly. One edge of the robe sliding out. The other. She spun around, pulled the gauzy fabric away from her body. Lot watched as the priestess unveiled herself. The breasts, magnificent, swayed in the air. Now her legs pulled free of the skirt. Nothing between them now save his own robe.
Which she had removed.
Enchanting.
“Lie face down, Lot. I'll clean you.”
He did as told. Her hands worked hard against his flesh. Lot pulled back, slightly, from the edge. He felt her scrub at him, working the harsh soap into his skin. First one stroke. Another. A bit of pain. His back clean then, yes, but he regained some portion of himself under her ministrations.
A splash of water. Another. Lot felt the hands again. No soap this time. She worked again his muscles, pulling years from the joints, working down deep into the nerves. Harshly. Professionally. Soothingly.
Then with a sigh, the muttering stopped. She stood above him for a moment, then pressed closer. Lot shifted his face forward, saw the slender calves, delicate knees, and above, the slight wisps of hair-blonde hair, with the lips at the end. He'd longed for such a firm, clean place to rest. His hand reached forward.
“Ahh,” she said, moaning slightly as Lot's fingers traced the edge. She bent against him, her nipples rubbing lightly against his back. Lot stroked; she stroked. Now lips brushed down. She moved towards his butt, playing against the cheeks with her fingers. Lot hadn't known this one was so tall. Still she lingered. Touching him, teasing him, 'til Lot could bear no more.
“Unnhh!” he moaned, rolling over. The Priestess nearly fell against the bed, but righted herself. Laughing. Lot gasped as he saw her again, her body glistening with sweat and moisture, the fluids dribbling off her, fiery beads in the torchlight. She twittered for a moment longer, then bent her head to his ear.
“Lot,” she said.
“Priestess.”
“Have you a small donation to make to the Goddess? You need not believe in her. But she wants something of you. Of course, you can understand…”
Lot understood. Understood all too well. He nodded, slightly. The priestess motioned. Lot stood up. She lay herself down. He crawled over her, kissing slightly at the firm breasts, feeling the round edge of her nipples.
“Ohh,” she sighed, as his tongue fell too, licking gently at the globes. His hands roamed now, circling the firm and tender flesh. Servant of the goddess, he worshipped her, sliding gently and delicately over her arms and legs.
“Wonderful, Lot,” said the Priestess, encouragingly. Lot did not hurry, bending now and again to kiss at her arms, her cheeks, her lips. He slid on top of her, pinning her beneath his bulk. So delicate, really. He'd not seen just how tiny this one was. Smaller even than his youngest daughter. But very much a woman for all that. Magnificent legs.
It was the regalia, he decided, that made her so impressive. She'd worn headdresses at times, or sat upon the dais. So intimidating, so powerful. More powerful even than “Lot? What?”
A burst of pain filled Lot's head. He continued, slowly, his ministrations, but his hands lost their rhythm; their desire to please. Where was that from? The pain above nearly matched the yearning below. A burning desire, an inflammation, a thirst that must be quenched.
What to do?
He could not run from this place. Couldn't stir himself. There would be a release here. The animal instincts demanded it.
And he would leave no tribute for the Goddess. The seed was sacred. Abraham's God deemed it so.
He stumbled away for a moment, returned, crushing the Priestess now.
“Lot? What? OK-Lot, OK.”
Lot would give nothing to the Goddess. This was her plan, the witch. Somehow, she'd taken over him, made him drink from the wines that had given dreams. How could she? How could she!
Lot slapped her. Crack! Again, his fist came down. The Priestess bled, staring at him in shock. But no tears emerged. Some other look in her eyes. A knowing look. It enraged him. Crack! From the other side, the back of his hand surged against the face of the Priestess. She would not smirk at him.
“You would trap me in your filthy lusts?”
“As a man to a woman, Lot. Hardly filthy.”
Crack!
“You would take my seed?”
“The Goddess insists. She is quite wise in the strange ways of men. She knows of your needs.” Again, the knowing eyes. Lot reared back once more to deliver a blow, the Priestess turned her face slightly, giving him a better approach to her cheeks.
“Leave a mark,” she said, “let everyone know Lot was here!”
Lot drew away once more. Infuriated now. He pounded his fists against the couch where they'd lay. What would it take from her? How to regain He remembered his days as a shepherd. Long ago in the flocks, before God had come to Abram. The peculiar satisfactions he'd enjoyed there.
Something in his face unnerved her. She glanced at him coldly. Warily. It would take an instant.
“Lot? Would you like me to get you a switch?”
Lot did not answer, again covering the Priestess with his bulk. He listened for a moment. They were alone in the temple. She twisted slightly, placing her own arms near her neck, ready to fend off any efforts at a chokehold. Lot smiled, raising his legs, flipped her over on her stomach, like the Sabbath Eve drunks who haunted his winestand.
“Lot!” she cried, voice muffled now as he thrust her face against the surface of the couch. Better, then, not to see her eyes. Better still that she could no longer speak. No longer taunt him with her witch words.
Cruelly, left hand pressing against her neck, he slipped his right between her legs. She was wet there. He played for a moment against the lips, then pressed her butt down, hard, against the surface.
Mounting, he drove hard into the other hole, where never before had he passed. The entry was tight, tight, tight, blocking him, then with a barely muffled shriek, he was through, as though in a vast cavern.
“Lot!” She cried, but already he bucked quickly against her, the rage of so many days' torment in the marketplace, so much mockery, so much indifference bearing in. “AGHHH!” Shrilled the Priestess. Lot did not care. He accelerating his thrusts, saw blood emerge from the outside of the hole.
Not his, he grunted to himself as he spread his seed on the Goddess' shit. Not his blood.
The Priestess was weeping. Quietly, but Lot saw the sobs rack her body, the slight tears against the couch. She did not know everything of men.
He was satisfied.
Standing, he wiped himself on her regal garment, swept the blood away into the gossamer silks. Her humiliation pleased him. He laughed as he dressed.
Her face still held against the couch. Lot saw the beginnings of a bruise there. Several bruises. As though she'd been stoned in the square. She should consider herself lucky.
His feet reached the entrance when she reared like a snake and said the words:
“Remember, Lot. I have the protection of the City. That which is done unto me shall be done unto you. Tenfold.”