Her thoughts crackled like fat as something spread through them, a bullet ricocheting around within her mind. She wanted to scream but the pleasure muffled her. Penelope tried to understand what had happened but the pleasure stopped her thinking by cracking a barbed whip across her psyche. Two more of the mind bullets fired into her, creating a cacophony, a raging whirlwind of vicious impacts.
Penelope was swallowed by sensations she couldn’t process; lights and sounds and climaxes and raging, hissing agony. It was too much, more straining and stressful than Mahrey’s torture. She could not think. She could do nothing, robbed of both her body and her mind.
It took her a moment to realise when it was all taken away; she was so scrambled by the combined assaults that her mind reeled even more in their absence. It was the sight of a harsh-looking Indian woman looming over her with grave concern that shocked her back to something resembling normality. Perhaps because it was so clear, a crisp vision from another life.
The Indian tightly gripped Penelope’s wrists, held her hands away from her body. Penelope’s fingers still danced away even though they touched nothing, little wriggling traitors.
“Who are you?” Penelope croaked. Then she sobbed with delight at being able to talk. Her throat felt bloody but she was glad of the sensation because it was real, normal.
“A friend,” the Indian said.
“Are you here to rescue me?”
The Indian looked over her shoulder and said “We’ll see.”
Penelope tried to follow what the woman was looking at but she couldn’t move her neck yet.
“Do you want to be rescued?” the Indian asked.
She almost scoffed but that was a good question; Penelope had voluntarily lay on the altar, had chosen to deny one god and accept another. It wasn’t a given that she would want to be rescued; her new-found belief could be solid enough that she would rather die than return with this rescuer.
Penelope had to decide what she wanted to happen. That Which Sins had at least been active in her life, had tested and taken pity on Penelope and given her an insight into the pleasure locked within her body… but it had black designs for her and its presence felt… evil. And she didn’t trust the ritual her cult had started; just considering the encompassing pleasure and its needles made her nervous shakes rise up.
That could just be the trauma of the new. Medieval Christians whipped themselves for their sins and anyone unfamiliar with self-flagellation would be shocked the first time they saw it. Trauma was probably the right word after days of physical and psychological torture, sleep deprivation and the shaming and the cold.
Penelope sighed, suddenly tired by thinking of the last few days. It would be best if she took some time and considered her options, and not just for her religious choices. It could be that she returned to That Which Sins without coercion but she wanted to talk things through with her family first.
Family… her family… Her Mama! Her poor Mama. In all the chaos and the horror, she’d forgotten about her Mama’s death, about her father sitting in a vast home with only servants for company. That image sealed it. Penelope had missed her Mama’s funeral but she would not miss supporting her father through his mourning or allow the great Chalmers family to fall into disrepair without a woman’s touch.
Religious matters could wait; this was family.
She licked her dry lips and was about to ask the Indian to save her when the crushing pleasure heaved again, overpowering her senses. Bright colours, repeated explosions and the strong smell of sweat wrapped around her and would not let her speak.
“You are mine,” said the slick voice. “I will not let you go.”
For a moment its grip tightened further and a dozen mind bullets fired into her, a dozen furious feet kicking her every thought. Penelope closed her eyes to concentrate on not-thinking and would have screamed if she had her tongue.
