Chapter 8: Communion of Flesh
The word ‘star’ hung in the perfumed air, a chain around Minalan’s neck. He stood frozen as Marcel disappeared into the shadows, the ghost of that touch on his forehead burning like a brand. Julian’s hand was a firm, guiding pressure on the small of his back, steering him away from the central stage, through an archway draped in heavy damask, and into a more intimate space.
This room was a golden cocoon. Mirrors, veiled with sheer gauze, lined the walls, reflecting the flicker of a hundred candles in smoky distortion. Low divans heaped with silk cushions formed a half-circle around an obsidian table, its surface polished to a liquid black. The air here was thicker, warmer, carrying the intimate scent of jasmine oil and heated skin. A handful of people lounged, their conversation a low, murmured rhythm. They all looked up as Julian and Minalan entered. The appraisal was instant, practiced.
“Sit,” Julian murmured, not a suggestion. He nudged Minalan onto a large cushion at the center of the crescent. Minalan obeyed, the softness swallowing him, making him feel exposed and childlike. Vivian appeared from somewhere, a vision in a robe of deep emerald that spilled open as she settled beside him, her thigh warm against his. She didn’t look at him, but her hand found his knee, her thumb stroking slow circles.
Marcel returned, now clad in loose black trousers. He carried an air of absolute ownership. He snapped his fingers once, a clean sound that cut through the murmur. A server, androgynous and silent, glided forward carrying a heavy silver tray. On it rested a single, large crystal goblet. It was filled with a fluid that shimmered opalescent in the candlelight, viscous and clouded.
The tray was placed on the obsidian table directly in front of Minalan.
“The nectar of Elysium,” Marcel said, his voice a quiet purr that demanded the room’s silence. He came around the table and knelt before Minalan, his presence both threatening and magnetic. His green eyes held Minalan’s. “Collected tonight. From the beautiful, the desirous, the satisfied.” A faint, knowing smile touched his lips. “A communion of pleasure. Drink, and we’ll show you paradise.”
Minalan stared at the goblet. Understanding, sick and thrilling, dawned. The opalescent sheen, the thickness.It was warm. He could see the heat rising from it in the cool air of the cavern.
His stomach lurched. The strict, plain teachings of his youth screamed inside his head.Abomination. Filth. Yet beneath the revulsion, a dark, traitorous curiosity uncoiled. Julian’s lessons echoed.A tool. To be used. This was another use. The ultimate surrender.
“I…” Minalan’s voice cracked.
“Shhh,” Vivian whispered, her lips at his ear. Her hand slid up his thigh, dangerously high. “Just taste it, sweet boy. It’s just a taste of what you are now. What you give. What you take.”
Marcel’s hand came up, his fingers curling around Minalan’s throat, not squeezing, just holding. The pad of his thumb pressed against Minalan’s Adam’s apple. “Open.”
Trembling, Minalan’s lips parted. Marcel’s other hand lifted the goblet. The rim was cool against Minalan’s lower lip. The smell that wafted up was musky, salty, profoundly organic. He gagged, his eyes watering.
“Swallow,” Julian commanded softly from behind him. There was no room for disobedience in that tone.
Marcel tilted the glass. The first mouthful touched his tongue. It was warm, brackish, a shock of salt and something iron-rich and deeply unfamiliar. It coated his mouth. He choked, a dribble escaping down his chin. A collective, soft moan rippled through the watching crowd. The sound was one of hunger, of appreciation.
“Good,” Marcel crooned, his thumb stroking the trail of fluid on Minalan’s chin, then pushing it back into his mouth. “Good boys swallow everything.”
He tipped the goblet again. This time, Minalan closed his eyes and let the warmth flood his mouth. He forced his throat to work. It went down, heavy and thick, a sacrament of obscenity. A heat spread from his stomach, a false, dizzying warmth that had nothing to do with the temperature of the fluid and everything to do with the violation. He was drinking shame. He was consuming his own corruption. And it was making him hard again, his cock straining painfully against the fine linen of his new trousers.
A sigh of approval went around the room. The goblet was emptied, placed back on the tray. Minalan panted, his eyes flying open, seeking something solid. He found only hungry faces, dilated pupils, lips parted in arousal.
“Relax,” Julian growled into his ear. “This is the heart of it. This is where you let go.”