Chapter 8: The Public Claim
The long table beneath the old oak had settled into its evening rhythm. Plates scraped clean, cups of water passed from hand to hand, and the low murmur of eighty-three voices rose and fell like the tide. Candlelight flickered along the polished wood, catching the faces of the faithful, their cheeks flushed from the day's labor and the warmth of the meal.
Amanda sat near the middle of the table, between Bambi and an older woman whose name she had not yet learned. Her body still hummed with the memory of the afternoon, the feel of Bambi's hands on her skin, the weight of eyes upon her as she arched and gasped beneath the oak. She had eaten without tasting, her mind returning again and again to that moment of revelation, the discovery that being seen could feel like being touched.
Bambi leaned against her shoulder, one hand tucked beneath the table, tracing idle circles on Amanda's thigh. The string bikini did nothing to hide the flush that spread across Bambi's chest, the evidence of her own lingering arousal.
"You smell like you," Bambi murmured, low and pleased. "Like the afternoon."
Amanda shivered, her thighs pressing together. She felt the wetness there, a slow, persistent heat that had not cooled since dinner began. She reached for her cup, but her hand trembled, and she set it down again.
The murmur of conversation did not stop all at once. It faded, section by section, as heads turned toward the head of the table. Abel rose from his chair with the unhurried grace of a man who had never needed to rush for anyone. He stood there a moment, looking down the length of the table, and the silence spread like ripples on still water.
Amanda felt her breath catch. She watched him walk, his charcoal tunic catching the candlelight, his boots soft on the packed earth. He passed Margot, who bowed her head as he went. He passed Nia, who sat very still, her jaw tight. He passed Vera, whose eyes followed him with desperate hunger.
He did not stop for any of them.
He stopped behind Amanda.
She felt the warmth of his presence before she felt his hand. The faint scent of woodsmoke and clean linen. His fingers brushed her bare shoulder, light as a whisper, and she heard herself make a small, involuntary sound.
"Amanda," he said, and his voice carried, unhurried, intimate, as if the two of them were alone. "I saw you with Bambi today."
Her throat closed. She wanted to speak, to answer, but the words would not come.
"A beautiful sight," Abel continued, his thumb tracing a slow circle against her skin. "Worth repeating."
Bambi's hand tightened on Amanda's thigh. Across the table, Odette watched with quiet reverence, her hands folded before her, her silver hair catching the light.
Abel raised one hand, a single, economical gesture. Odette rose at once, graceful and swift for a woman of her years, and moved to the side of the table where she had been serving. She returned carrying a small velvet cushion, dark purple, worn soft at the edges. Upon it lay a dildo, glistening with oil, its shape curved and thick, its surface polished to a dull sheen.
The crowd drew a collective breath.
Abel took the cushion from Odette's hands. He set it on the table before him, directly in front of Amanda, and the dildo stood upright, glistening in the candlelight.
"Ride it," he whispered, his mouth close to Amanda's ear. "Here, on the table, before me. Let them see what you learned today."
Amanda's mind went blank. Her body answered before her thoughts could catch up. She rose from her chair, her legs unsteady, and felt the hands of the women beside her guiding her up. Someone lifted her onto the table's edge. The wood was warm beneath her thighs, smooth from years of use.
She was wearing a thin grey shift, practical and plain, and Bambi pulled it up and over her head before she could think to stop her. The cool evening air kissed her skin, and she felt the press of dozens of eyes upon her, hungry and reverent.
Her thighs were already slick. She felt the wetness of her own arousal trickling down the inside of her leg, felt the shame and the thrill of it twist together in her belly.
Abel stood at the head of the table, his arms folded, his gaze fixed on her. "Open for me," he said, and she obeyed, her knees falling apart, her hands braced behind her on the polished wood.
The dildo waited. It was larger than she had expected, its curve promising a depth that made her clench.
Amanda reached down with a trembling hand. Her fingers found its base, slick with oil, and she lifted it from the velvet cushion. The crowd watched in silence. No one moved. No one spoke.
She positioned it beneath her, the tip pressing against her entrance, and she felt her body open instinctively, the muscle and heat of her yielding to the pressure. She lowered herself slowly, her breath hitching as it pushed inside her, stretching her, filling her. She felt the curve settle against the soft wall of her inner cunt, and a moan escaped her before she could stop it.
"Look at them," Abel said, his voice low and steady. "Look at how they watch you."
Amanda's gaze swept over the table. Dozens of women, leaning forward, their lips parted, their eyes fixed on the sight of her impaled. She saw Bambi's smile, wide and encouraging. She saw Nia's jaw tight with envy. She saw Odette's hands clasped in something like prayer.
She began to move.
It was not graceful. She was new to this, still learning the rhythm of her own hips, the angle that made her see stars. But she rode him the way she had learned that afternoon, bouncing on the polished wood, her cunt gripping the toy with each stroke, her cries filling the silence.
Abel watched without touching her. His gaze was a weight upon her, heavier than any hand, and she felt herself climbing toward release with a speed that terrified and delighted her. She pressed down, grinding, and the curve of the dildo dragged against the spot that made her gasp.
"Please," she heard herself say, though she did not know what she was begging for. "Please, please."
"Come for them," Abel commanded. "Show them what you are."
Amanda threw her head back and came with a cry that rent the air. She felt herself gush, felt the wet heat of her own release slicking her thighs and the toy, felt the shuddering waves of pleasure roll through her as the crowd around her gasped and murmured and some few applauded.
She collapsed forward, her hands catching the table's edge, her chest heaving. Her cunt still clenched around the dildo, pulsing with aftershocks.
Abel stepped closer. His fingers found her chin, tilting her face up to meet his eyes.
"Good girl," he said, and the words settled into her like a stone dropping into still water. "That's what I wanted to see."
The warmth of Abel's praise lingered on her skin like a brand. She felt his hand fall away from her chin, felt the absence of his fingers like a physical loss, but she did not dare reach for him. She simply stayed where she was, perched on the table's edge, the dildo still buried inside her, pulsing with the aftershocks of her release.
"Vera," Abel said, his voice carrying easily through the silence. "Put some food aside for her. For after this."
Vera rose at once, her naked apron rustling as she hurried toward the serving table. She moved with that careful, meticulous grace that marked all her work, ladling stew into a spare bowl, wrapping a hunk of bread in a clean cloth, setting the meal aside with the reverence of a woman preparing an offering.
Then Abel walked back to his seat at the head of the table. He sat down with the same unhurried ease with which he had risen, settling into his chair, reaching for his cup. The silence held for a moment longer, and then he spoke again, his voice calm and conversational.
"Anyone who is enjoying her show may enjoy it to its fullest."
The words were permission. They were command. They were both at once.
Amanda felt the shift ripple through the table like a wave. Whats had been a held breath became an exhalation of movement all around her. Hands that had been folded in laps began to move. Bodies shifted on benches. The quiet murmur of suppressed desire became audible, a soft chorus of gasps and sighs and the wet sounds of fingers finding their targets.
Bambi was the first. Of course she was. Her hand had already been between her thighs, hidden beneath the table, and now it emerged into the candlelight without shame. Her fingers slid through her slick folds, spreading herself open for the room to see, and she leaned back on the bench, her tits rising with each slow breath. Her other hand came up to cup one breast, fingers pinching at her nipple, rolling it between thumb and forefinger with a practiced, indulgent touch. Her gaze never left Amanda, her smile wide and empty and utterly approving.
"Good girl," Bambi breathed, the words meant only for Amanda, an echo of the ones Abel had given her. "Such a good, pretty girl."
Amanda felt her cheeks burn. The praise hit her like a physical thing, settling into her chest, warming her from the inside. She started to move again, her hips rolling experimentally, the dildo shifting inside her with a wet, slick sound.
Her eyes swept the table again, and this time she saw them. All of them.
Nia had dropped to all fours on the bench, her face turned toward Amanda, her body braced on one arm. Her other hand was behind her back, fingers working at her own asshole, pressing and circling and pushing, her head bowed with concentration. Her jaw was tight, her breath coming in harsh, frustrated pants. Amanda could see the tension in her shoulders, the way she worked at herself with the same ruthless discipline she brought to everything. But there was something different in her posture now, a softening Amanda had not seen before. Nia's fingers were not forcing. They were coaxing, pressing gently, circling with deliberate patience. And even from where she sat, Amanda could hear the small, surprised sounds Nia made when her fingers found some angle that pleased her.
Between thrusts of her own hips, Nia reached out blindly and grabbed a piece of bread from the table, stuffing it into her mouth with mechanical efficiency. She chewed without looking, swallowed without tasting, her eyes fixed on Amanda's spread thighs, her fingers working steadily at her own ass.
The sight of it made Amanda's breath catch. This was Nia, the enforcer, the one who had dismissed Bambi as a performer, who had claimed her service was superior to all others. And now she knelt on her bench, face flushed, one hand buried in her own asshole, eating bread while she watched Amanda fuck herself on a toy. The humiliation of it, the surrender of it, was written in every line of her body.
Amanda pressed down harder, the curve of the dildo dragging against her inner wall, and cried out softly.
She looked further. Beyond Nia, she found Karin, the pink-haired boy who had trained Nia in the art of surrender. He sat with his knees drawn up, his makeshift skirt hiked high, one hand working between his thighs with a desperate, hungry energy. His lips were parted, his eyes glassy, and he mouthed something at her, words she could not hear but understood. Lucky. So lucky.
The older woman whose name Amanda had not learned had turned away from the table, her shoulders shaking with the effort of her own suppressed release. Women leaned against each other, hands between each other's thighs, mouths open on shared pleasure. Some few sat rigid, watching without touching, their faces flushed with the same fever that burned in Amanda's blood. And at the head of the table, Abel sat calmly eating his stew, watching them all with the detached satisfaction of a man surveying his fields.
A flush of heat washed through her. It was not shame, not anymore. It was the same revelation she had found that afternoon beneath the oak, the discovery that being watched could feel like being touched. But this was more. This was being watched by all of them, being the center of their attention, being the vessel for Abel's pleasure and theirs. It was glory. It was worship. It was coming home.
Her hips found a rhythm, slow and deep, the dildo filling her completely with every stroke. She braced her hands behind her, arching her back, offering herself to their gaze. Her cunt dripped around the toy, leaving a wet trail on the polished wood. She heard her own voice rise, pitching into a moan that no longer embarrassed her.
"Please," she said again, though she still did not know what she was asking for. "Please let me come."
Abel set down his spoon. He looked at her, and his gaze was a weight and a warmth and a claim, all at once. "You will come when I say you may," he said. "And not before."
The words should have frustrated her. Instead, they ignited something in her belly, a hunger that burned hotter than any of the pleasure she had felt that afternoon. She was his. She was being held at the edge by his word alone. And every eye in the garden was upon her as she trembled on the brink.
She looked at Bambi again, who was moaning openly now, her fingers buried deep inside her cunt, her other hand still working her breast. She looked at Nia, who had not stopped her patient assault on her own asshole, whose mouth hung open on hitching breaths. She looked at Vera, who had returned from her duty and stood at the edge of the table, watching Amanda with those large, hungry hazel eyes, her hand already creeping beneath her naked apron.
"Let me come," Amanda gasped, the words torn from her throat. "Please, Abel. I need to come so bad."
Abel picked up his spoon again. He took a bite of stew, chewed, swallowed. "Come for me," he said.
Amanda screamed. She came harder than she had that afternoon, harder than she had ever come in her life, her body bowing off the table, her cunt clenching around the dildo in convulsive waves. Clear liquid gushed from her, splashing over the toy, over her thighs, dripping onto the wood in a wide glistening stain. The crowd around her cried out in ragged chorus, some of them coming with her, the sound of their release washing over her like applause.
She collapsed onto the table, her cheek pressed against the warm wood, her body wracked with shudders. The dildo still sat inside her, a familiar weight, a claim.
"Good girl," Abel said again, and the words were enough to make her want to do it all over again.
Amanda's cheek pressed against the warm wood, her breath coming in ragged gasps. The dildo still sat inside her, a claim she had no desire to surrender. But even as the aftershocks rippled through her thighs, she felt the hunger stirring again, the need to prove herself worthy of the word he had given her.
Good girl.
She pushed herself up on trembling arms. The table was slick beneath her palms, wet with her own release and the spill of her efforts. She looked down the length of it, at the bodies moving in the candlelight, at the faces turned toward her with hunger and approval. And she began to ride again.
It was slower this time. Her hips rolled with a dreamy, exhausted rhythm, the dildo sliding deep and dragging against that spot inside her that made her gasp. She braced one hand behind her, arching her back, offering herself to the room. Her other hand found her clit, fingers circling in a lazy, practiced figure eight that she had learned from Bambi that afternoon.
The table had become a strange, sacred space. Some women had pulled their bowls close, eating with one hand while the other worked between their thighs. Plates of bread sat half finished beside open legs and slick fingers. A woman across from Amanda bit into an apple while her hips ground against her own hand, juice running down her chin. Others had given up on food entirely, their bodies twisted together on the benches, mouths and hands seeking release.
Odette sat near the head of the table, untouched by the pleasure around her. She ate her stew in silence, her silver hair catching the candlelight, her hands steady on her spoon. Her gaze passed over the writhing bodies with something like fondness, like a mother watching her children at play. When her eyes met Amanda's, she smiled, small and warm, and returned to her meal.
Bambi had come twice more, her cries rising into the evening air, her body limp and satisfied on the bench. But even now her hand moved lazily between her thighs, her fingers sliding through her own wetness without urgency, drawing out the pleasure like a thread pulled endless from a spool.
Time lost its shape. The candle flames burned lower, the shadows stretched and danced. Amanda lost count of her own orgasms somewhere after the third or fourth, her body moving beyond exhaustion into a state of floating, boneless surrender. Her thighs shook with each stroke of the dildo, but she did not stop. She could not stop. The word good still echoed in her skull, and she wanted to earn it again.
Nia had not stopped either. She knelt on her bench, her face turned toward Amanda, her hand still working behind her back. Her brow was furrowed with concentration, her jaw tight, but there was something new in her eyes. Not frustration, not discipline. Something softer. Something almost like wonder.
Her fingers pushed deeper, and a small sound escaped her, a hitching gasp that made her cheeks flush. She pressed again, circling, and her hips rolled against her own hand. The bread she had been eating sat forgotten on the bench beside her. For a long moment she rocked there, her breath coming in short, sharp pants, her body working against her own fingers with a rhythm that was no longer forced but surrendered.
She did not come. But when she finally pulled her hand free, slick with oil, her eyes were bright and dazed. She looked at her fingers. Progress. There had been progress.
The meal wound down like a clock running slow. Plates emptied, cups were drained, and one by one the women around the table let their hands fall, their bodies spent and satisfied. They leaned against each other, flushed and languid, their eyes heavy with the particular contentedness of shared release.
Amanda felt herself swaying. The dildo had become a dull, familiar weight inside her, no longer a source of pleasure but a point of contact, a reminder of what she had done. Her arms trembled, her legs shaking, and she knew she could not ride much longer.
Abel set down his spoon. He had eaten his stew, bread, a cup of water, and watched it all with the calm attention of a man surveying his fields at harvest.
"Enough," he said.
The word fell like a stone into still water. Movement ceased around the table. Hands stilled between thighs, mouths closed on moans, and the garden held its breath.
Amanda slumped forward, her forehead pressing against the table's surface, her body giving out with a shuddering exhalation. She felt the dildo shift inside her, felt her cunt clench around it in a final, reflexive pulse, and then she let herself go limp.
"Help her down," Abel said.
Hands found her, gentle and sure. Bambi's arms wrapped around her waist, easing her off the table's edge. Amanda's legs buckled, and she would have fallen if not for the grip that held her. She felt the toy slide free of her with a wet, obscene sound, felt the gush of her own release spill down her thighs, and she whimpered at the loss of it.
Bambi lowered her to the bench, and Amanda sat there, swaying, her head resting against the other woman's shoulder. The cool evening air kissed her skin, raising goosebumps across her arms. Her thighs were slick, her shift still balled up somewhere beneath the table, and she had never felt more exposed, more seen, more utterly at peace.
Around her, the garden moved into its nightly rhythm. Chairs scraped back from the table, dishes were gathered into stacks, and the long table was lifted and carried away from the oak's shadow. Women worked with quiet efficiency, their movements still languid from their pleasure, their voices soft in the darkness. The candles were extinguished one by one, until only the moon's pale light remained to guide them.
Amanda watched it all unfold from her seat on the bench. Her body hummed with exhaustion and satisfaction, her muscles trembling with the effort of simply sitting upright. She made no move to rise, to help, to do anything but watch as the garden around her transformed from a place of feast into a place of worship.
When the table was gone and the ground cleared, the members gathered in the open space before the church. They knelt in rows, eighty-three bodies folding into the earth with a rustle of fabric and the soft sound of knees meeting packed soil. Their heads bowed. Their hands rested on their thighs, palms open, in the attitude of supplication that had become as natural to them as breath.
Bambi helped Amanda to her feet. Together they made their way to the edge of the kneeling crowd, and Bambi lowered her gently to the ground. Amanda's knees found the earth, and she knelt there, swaying slightly, her body still weak from the afternoon and evening of pleasure.
Abel walked among them. His boots made no sound on the packed earth, and he moved between the rows with the unhurried grace of a shepherd among his flock. He paused here and there, a hand brushing a shoulder, a word murmured too soft to hear.
He did not stop for Amanda. But his gaze found her, and the weight of it settled on her like a benediction.
Then he walked to the church's door. He stood there a moment, silhouetted against the darkness within, and the silence held.
"You're dismissed," he said. "All of you."
The dismissal was gentle, almost kind. But there was no invitation in it, no hidden promise. The faithful rose from their knees and dispersed into the night, moving toward their bunks and their cabins with the quiet murmur of those who had been released from vigil.
Amanda stayed on her knees a moment longer. She watched Abel step through the church's door, watched it close behind him with a soft click that seemed to echo in the stillness. Somewhere behind her, she heard Bambi's soft, dreamy giggle, and Odette's calm voice, Vera approaching with the food Abel had ordered to be put aside for her and the settling sounds of her new family preparing for rest.
She rose on legs that barely held her, and allowed Bambi to lead her toward the sleeping quarters. Her body ached in ways she had never known it could ache, her thighs slick and sore, her cunt tender and swollen. But beneath the ache there was something else, a quiet, blooming warmth that had nothing to do with the pleasure of the afternoon.
She had been seen. She had been chosen. She had been called good.
And in the morning, she would wake and do it all again, if he asked her to.