Chapter 53
VII. The Interrogation Chamber
“Hmm.”
The priest slid his pointer down from the apex of Delonas’s form. To remain inert, she clenched her teeth.
But the rod delved deeper than anticipated.
It teased the entrance, then—there.
“Hah.”
A sensation of deliberate, internal pressure—impossible to ignore.
The slender tip circled, as if to widen her gateway, then burrowed a fraction further in.
“Hhh…!”
And then it found a spot, far different from the violation of a c**k, a lower nexus of raw stimulus.
Her body convulsed of its own accord.
—Clang!
Chalang! The violent motion set the bells chiming, again and again, until the room rang with them.
“You may silence your mouth, but you cannot hide your body’s truths.”
The inquisitor’s eyes narrowed to slits. He began to worry at her depths with the pointer’s tip, more insistently now.
“Hh, ah, nn…!”
Her legs were bound mid-air; her hips bucked until her body nearly lifted from the chair entirely.
“How proficient. Did the Beakin royal court also give lessons in lechery?”
Mockery rippled through the priests. Delonas ground her teeth. To stay still. To deny them the reaction they craved.
But each time, the inquisitor’s belt would constrict her throat, draining all strength from her limbs.
Then the pointer would slide deeper between her unclenched thighs, pressing hard within.
“Hhaaang!”
The angle shifted, targeting a place still deeper, and her inner muscles clenched tight around the profound shock of it.
Then the rod, having probed that deep interior, withdrew, scraping its way out.
“Hh, nn…”
Her back arched again. She felt the weight of the men’s gazes collecting there.
Before her eyes, the metal tip of the pointer was presented. Only the tip was metal; the shaft was pale wood. The end was now dark, soaked through.
“A sinner who offers her confession as lewd moisture. A first.”
The inquisitor spoke as if baffled. The vulgar term—lewd moisture—was one never before directed at her. Delonas’s mind went utterly, blindingly white.
“Little need for further confession. But the need for penitence seems quite clear.”
The man wiped the rod clean on her garments and took his place between her splayed legs.
“…!”
Delonas could do nothing but writhe, her spine a tense arc.
“Let the priests who will personally guide this sinner’s contrition now ascend the platform.”
His words sounded as if he were offering them a chance to perform a service. The reality was otherwise.
The priests who climbed onto the dais were each in a state of frank arousal. To see a woman writhing in the chair at eye-level, at hip-height—there was not a man present who remained unmoved. Any who might have been were long since cast beyond the temple walls.
Thus, the hands that descended upon Delonas’s body were all steeped in a desire far removed from piety. A dozen hands seized and kneaded her hair, her b*****s, her thighs.
“Don’t—”
The mouth that tried to form the protest was met, thud, with the already-freed flesh of a priest, rubbed against it like a blow.
“Hheup!”
Unwilling to take it into her mouth, she clamped her lips shut and turned her head away.
At once, a thumb—whose, she knew not—began to pry insistently at the seam of her lips.
“Nnuph!”
As the man worried at the closed gate, he seized her jaw with one hand.
“Huk!”
The brutal force parted her lips, and the thumb pushed its way inside.
His fingers scraped roughly across the inner walls of her lips, beneath her tongue. A priest settled between her thighs buried his face into her wetness. A sharp nose brushed her apex just as a tongue-tip sought her entrance.
“Ah—hh!”
Her hips jolted at the sensation, a small, unbidden arch off the chair, as if offering herself to him.
“Hah, your body betrays you.”
The face that emerged from her glistened with her slickness. “Soaked through. Dripping.” He swiped a hand across his chin, then smeared the gathered wetness onto his own arousal. He hoisted her hips higher.
“No…!”
Trying to retreat was futile; bound as she was, she was no match for his strength. He did not thrust into her. Instead, he dragged her slickness over himself, a brutal, grinding friction.
“Ngh!”
She twisted at the strange, piercing angle of the sensation.
—Chalang!
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