Altar Ego

I stood at the top of the long flight of stone stairs which led down into the dark crypt below, its shadowy recesses lit only by a few beams of sunlight from cunningly-hidden openings in the church foundations above my head.

I cast off my hooded cloak of midnight black and dropped it to one side. The slight chill of the cavern caused my nipples to harden, although the shiver in my body was more in anticipation of the delights to follow than the coolness of the air. I inspected myself in the mirror by the door, turning this way and that, standing up straight and raising my chin to emphasize my breasts.

Under the cloak, I habitually wore only the skimpiest of garments fashioned from black lace or soft leather, and carefully chosen to complement, not to conceal, my pale skin and feminine curves. I tossed back my tangled mass of dark brown hair, then ran my hands over my waist, my thighs, my long black fingernails contrasting with the paleness of my skin.

A roost of bats took flight overhead, alarmed by the movement of my cloak. I liked the bats; they were creatures of the dark, like me. I had taken them as a kind of motif, modeling parts of my clothing on their shape. The bats would settle again in a few minutes, I knew, leaving the caverns once again quiet - at least, for the moment.

Satisfied with my own appearance, I made my way down the stairs that led to the cavern below. My objective was the dark altar of cool stone in the centre of the main chamber, just at the point where one of the sunbeams strike at midday. Much of the rest of the space was in darkness, but I knew it was furnished with all the devices and furniture and apparatus that my future imagination might require.

My servants - they are not slaves, as they had given themselves to my service willingly - were waiting in the shadowed entrance to the rooms they occupy when not attending to my needs. I have no idea what is to be found on the far side of that door, or what they do there, although I have given strict instructions that they practice strict celibacy behind closed doors, so saving all their sexual energies for my daily need.

The male, Tor, was tall and hard-muscled with cropped blond hair. His biceps bulged; his torso looked as if it had been lovingly carved from oiled and polished wood, and his loins certainly more than lived up to the promise of the rest of his luscious body. He was naked other than a tiny loincloth of black leather and a collar of the same material. His face, I have to admit, bears a close resemblance to one I had seen from time to time in the fields when riding to town in the car with Papa.

The girl, Jasmine, also had a face with which I was familiar, but not from life. Her sultry pout and aristocratic mien came from the pages of a world encyclopedia, an improving book of the kind Mama would have me read. Here, she wore a heavy floor-length garment of black silk with deep sleeves, of a kind my book described as a kimono, decorated with writhing silver dragons in the Japanese style.

As I reached the bottom of the staircase and glanced in her direction, Jasmine opened the kimono and dropped it on the stone flags behind her. Underneath, she was quite naked. Her body was slender and lithe, and I knew it to be exceptionally flexible, like that of a gymnast or a dancer. She had straight black hair that fell nearly to her waist, hair that would sometimes conceal, and then invitingly reveal, her tiny breasts with astonishingly large, dark and erect nipples that I loved to feel pressed against my own.

I lay back on the dark block of the altar, the stone cool against my naked flesh. Again, I ran my fingers over my neck, my breasts, the curve of my belly, the soft skin of my inner thighs. Then, with a wave of my hand, I beckoned Jasmine and Tor to my side.

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