"Planning on jumping in?" Peter asked. Harold and Wendy ignored him.
Harold had been thinking about the poem prayer, about how little they understood it, even though it appeared to be straightforward.
Princess Ankh-hetep
Begs the gods
To bequeath the rod
That secures the future
The eye is blind
Stone made to wait;
The cylinder
Which seals one’s fate.
Flood of life
For fields to grow
Requires the rod
Requires the seed.
By their reckoning, Wendy represented Princess Ankh-hetep. Once the rod had been bequeathed, so to speak, Wendy had taken on some aspects of a goddess. She had turned Peter into a kind of living stone, waiting. What hadn't happened in the Repository was the third stanza. Or rather, it had happened--he had come, twice--but not in a way that would have led to pregnancy. A sudden thought caught Harold unaware and speechless.
Oh, God, Harold thought, putting his hands to his face, We had sex in the hospital! What if I got Wendy pregnant?
"What's wrong, slave?"
Harold rubbed at his face, reluctant to show it.
"It's a fecundity prayer, right? So what if--" he swallowed, "what if, in the hospital. . ." his voice trailed away.
Wendy blanched and took a step back. Peter started to laugh.
"Oh come on! Really? You fucked the diabetic douche bag? While, like, what, hooked up to an IV and with that paper apron shit and all that?"
Wendy's face clouded. Lightning struck a nearby tree and it fell toward them with a whistling sigh and a loud crack as it landed. All three of them jumped.
"Fuck, Wendy, keep your temper," Peter said, his voiced pitched high in fear.
"Was-- was that you, Wendy?" Harold asked.
Wendy didn't reply. She took Pierce's box out of Harold's bag and opened it.
"Don't touch it!" Harold said. Wendy ignored him.
The moment her fingertip touched the phallus the air around her grew red, sparks crackling at the ends of her hair, jumping from her skin to the stone cylinder, arching out to sting and bite at Harold and Peter.
"The eye is blind
By their reckoning, Wendy represented Princess Ankh-hetep. Once the rod had been bequeathed, so to speak, Wendy had taken on some aspects of a goddess. She had turned Peter into a kind of living stone, waiting. What hadn't happened in the Repository was the third stanza. Or rather, it had happened--he had come, twice--but not in a way that would have led to pregnancy. A sudden thought caught Harold unaware and speechless.
Oh, God, Harold thought, putting his hands to his face, We had sex in the hospital! What if I got Wendy pregnant?
"What's wrong, slave?"
Harold rubbed at his face, reluctant to show it.
"It's a fecundity prayer, right? So what if--" he swallowed, "what if, in the hospital. . ." his voice trailed away.
Wendy blanched and took a step back. Peter started to laugh.
"Oh come on! Really? You fucked the diabetic douche bag? While, like, what, hooked up to an IV and with that paper apron shit and all that?"
Wendy's face clouded. Lightning struck a nearby tree and it fell toward them with a whistling sigh and a loud crack as it landed. All three of them jumped.
"Fuck, Wendy, keep your temper," Peter said, his voiced pitched high in fear.
"Was-- was that you, Wendy?" Harold asked.
Wendy didn't reply. She took Pierce's box out of Harold's bag and opened it.
"Don't touch it!" Harold said. Wendy ignored him.
The moment her fingertip touched the phallus the air around her grew red, sparks crackling at the ends of her hair, jumping from her skin to the stone cylinder, arching out to sting and bite at Harold and Peter.
"The eye is blind
Stone made to wait;
The cylinder
Which seals one’s fate."
Peter froze, mouth half-open as about to speak.
"We will bring the flood," Wendy said, speaking in that ancient language of soft syllables and susurrations. The wind picked up its speed, seemed to whisper multiple translations in Harold's ears. He covered them. He didn't want to hear.
"Wendy," he yelled over the shifting cacophony, "Wendy, put it down, let it go!"
He wasn't feeling that strange, strong shift in himself, as he had at the Repository. He felt like his new self, a healthy slave, but not possessed. Wendy, though, looked as she had when she'd first used the phallus: like a multi-dimensional being, overly real, shrouded by air, timeless.
Harold knelt and bowed his head. He accepted that he wasn't in control. He just hoped Wendy was.
"Flood of life
Peter froze, mouth half-open as about to speak.
"We will bring the flood," Wendy said, speaking in that ancient language of soft syllables and susurrations. The wind picked up its speed, seemed to whisper multiple translations in Harold's ears. He covered them. He didn't want to hear.
"Wendy," he yelled over the shifting cacophony, "Wendy, put it down, let it go!"
He wasn't feeling that strange, strong shift in himself, as he had at the Repository. He felt like his new self, a healthy slave, but not possessed. Wendy, though, looked as she had when she'd first used the phallus: like a multi-dimensional being, overly real, shrouded by air, timeless.
Harold knelt and bowed his head. He accepted that he wasn't in control. He just hoped Wendy was.
"Flood of life
For fields to grow
Requires the rod
Requires the seed."
Wendy pointed the phallus at her slave. Tears welled in her eyes. In mere hours she'd come to love him, to delight in him. She didn't know what the spell would do to him, but it was Satis and Isis and the original Princess Ankh-Hetep and, she felt, countless other women and goddesses welling up inside her, pushing the words out of her in a myriad of languages.
"We will bring the flood of life," she said, "You will bring the seed." She felt a flood of pleasure between her legs, so intense she fell to her knees only a few feet from Harold. He raised his head to look at her. She tried to smile at him, tried to tell him everything would be okay, but the sheer force of all the feminine beings within her left her shaking and breathless. Instead of looking reassuring she looked wild, fierce and passionate.
"Disrobe," she said, a single, flat word instantly surrounded by its alternates. Harold undid the few buttons on his shirt with shaking hands. The cotton pad protecting his burn grew wet, absorbing the rain. They both rose and stripped in hurried, fumbling motions, Wendy still gripping the phallus in one hand, neither trying to be sexy nor trying to avoid the inevitable. Wendy felt each movement as a small orgasm, sensation rushing through her from fingertip to toes, rushing out the top of her head and into the lowering clouds.
A fog closed in around them and soon the only light was the red glow where Wendy's hand connected with the phallus. She could hear the river slavering like a hungry dog, the noise of it half-lost in the rush of the wind. She tried not to imagine their plan, tried to pretend she had no other intent than to succumb to the magic of the phallus and its poem.
She felt drawn to Harold and she stepped willingly toward him, caught his wrist in her free hand and pulled him against her wet, naked skin. He tilted his head down to meet her kiss, to melt into her kiss and her warm flesh. Red light crackled and arced between them but neither felt pain, only a delicate, teasing pleasure.
Wendy raised one leg, pressed the inside of her knee into Harold's waist, above his hip. He responded by crouching and angling his pelvis, sliding his cock into her as he straightened up, holding her by the shoulders to steady her. She closed her eyes, lost in the intense sensation of his entrance.
Harold ran his hands over her shoulders and arms and his left hand caught hold of the phallus, gripped it alongside Wendy's hand. They both gasped as strong orgasms sped through them, Harold spilling into Wendy as her contracting muscles pulled him deeper into her.
"Throw it!" she yelled, and threw her arm out, willing her fingers to let go of the cylinder. Harold followed her lead and the stone relic flew away from their fingertips and arced out over the river. They watched as what was a dim globe of red grew bright and huge, spreading out to envelope them. The mist lifted to reveal the river, red as blood, and a rapidly clearing night sky.
The voices in Wendy's head receded, she felt her sense of self collapse back into her body. All that power she'd been promised slipped out between her legs and made its way into the river.
"Wendy?" Harold asked. He was still holding her naked body against his. She turned her head away from the high, red river to look into his eyes. She didn't think she had ever seen his eyes look so clear, so focused.
"You're not my slave anymore, Harold," she said, as she put her foot on the concrete ground and stepped back, "and I'm not your goddess."
"Yes," Harold said, still holding her hand, "Yes you are. Whatever happens next, you're still my goddess."
Wendy pointed the phallus at her slave. Tears welled in her eyes. In mere hours she'd come to love him, to delight in him. She didn't know what the spell would do to him, but it was Satis and Isis and the original Princess Ankh-Hetep and, she felt, countless other women and goddesses welling up inside her, pushing the words out of her in a myriad of languages.
"We will bring the flood of life," she said, "You will bring the seed." She felt a flood of pleasure between her legs, so intense she fell to her knees only a few feet from Harold. He raised his head to look at her. She tried to smile at him, tried to tell him everything would be okay, but the sheer force of all the feminine beings within her left her shaking and breathless. Instead of looking reassuring she looked wild, fierce and passionate.
"Disrobe," she said, a single, flat word instantly surrounded by its alternates. Harold undid the few buttons on his shirt with shaking hands. The cotton pad protecting his burn grew wet, absorbing the rain. They both rose and stripped in hurried, fumbling motions, Wendy still gripping the phallus in one hand, neither trying to be sexy nor trying to avoid the inevitable. Wendy felt each movement as a small orgasm, sensation rushing through her from fingertip to toes, rushing out the top of her head and into the lowering clouds.
A fog closed in around them and soon the only light was the red glow where Wendy's hand connected with the phallus. She could hear the river slavering like a hungry dog, the noise of it half-lost in the rush of the wind. She tried not to imagine their plan, tried to pretend she had no other intent than to succumb to the magic of the phallus and its poem.
She felt drawn to Harold and she stepped willingly toward him, caught his wrist in her free hand and pulled him against her wet, naked skin. He tilted his head down to meet her kiss, to melt into her kiss and her warm flesh. Red light crackled and arced between them but neither felt pain, only a delicate, teasing pleasure.
Wendy raised one leg, pressed the inside of her knee into Harold's waist, above his hip. He responded by crouching and angling his pelvis, sliding his cock into her as he straightened up, holding her by the shoulders to steady her. She closed her eyes, lost in the intense sensation of his entrance.
Harold ran his hands over her shoulders and arms and his left hand caught hold of the phallus, gripped it alongside Wendy's hand. They both gasped as strong orgasms sped through them, Harold spilling into Wendy as her contracting muscles pulled him deeper into her.
"Throw it!" she yelled, and threw her arm out, willing her fingers to let go of the cylinder. Harold followed her lead and the stone relic flew away from their fingertips and arced out over the river. They watched as what was a dim globe of red grew bright and huge, spreading out to envelope them. The mist lifted to reveal the river, red as blood, and a rapidly clearing night sky.
The voices in Wendy's head receded, she felt her sense of self collapse back into her body. All that power she'd been promised slipped out between her legs and made its way into the river.
"Wendy?" Harold asked. He was still holding her naked body against his. She turned her head away from the high, red river to look into his eyes. She didn't think she had ever seen his eyes look so clear, so focused.
"You're not my slave anymore, Harold," she said, as she put her foot on the concrete ground and stepped back, "and I'm not your goddess."
"Yes," Harold said, still holding her hand, "Yes you are. Whatever happens next, you're still my goddess."
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