Temple of the Winds

Chapter 24

From the solace of the shadows, he watched as the middle-aged man closed the door and stood in the dim hall a moment to tuck in his shirt over his potbelly. The man chortled to himself and then thumped off down the hall to disappear as he descended the stairs.

It was late. It would be several hours yet before the sun was up. With the walls painted red, the candles set before silvered reflectors at either end of the narrow hall were able to provide precious little useful light. He liked it that way—the way the comforting cloak of shadows in the pit of the night lent its mood to such nefarious needs.

Debauchery was best indulged in the night. In the darkness. He stood awhile in the quiet obscurity of the hall, savoring his desire. It had been too long. He let his lust have rein, and felt its glorious, wanton ache fill him.

He closed his mouth and breathed through his nose to better experience the range of aromas, both transcendent and abiding. He put his shoulders back and used his abdominal muscles to draw slower, deeper breaths.

He counted a variety of scents, from the smells men carried in and took away with them back to their own lives, the smells of their work-horse, clay, grain dust, the lanolin soldiers used in the care of leather uniforms, and the oil they used for sharpening their weapons, to a redolent wisp of almond oil, and the stale dirt and wet wood of the building.

It was an afferent feast that was only just beginning.

He glanced the length of the hall again, checking. He heard no sounds of lust coming from any of the other rooms. It was late, even for an establishment like this. The fat, potbellied man was probably the last of them, except for himself.

He liked to be last. The evidence of the events before he arrived, and the lingering smells, gave him a rush of sensation. His senses were always heightened in his aroused state, and he valued all the details.

He closed his eyes for a moment, feeling the throbbing of his need. She would help him. She would sate his desire; that was what they were here for. They offered themselves willingly.

Other men, like the potbellied man, simply threw themselves on a woman, grunted in a moment of satisfaction, and it was over. They never gave thought to what the woman was feeling, to what she needed, to giving her satisfaction. Those men were no more than rutting beasts, ignorant of all the details that could add to the climax for both. Their mind’s eye was too focused on the object of their lust; they didn’t see the integral parts of the wider setting that led to true satisfaction.

It was the fleeting, the ephemeral, that created a transcendent experience. Through uncommon perception, and his singular awareness, he could net such evanescent events and commemorate them forever in his memory, thus giving the transient nature of satisfaction permanence.

He felt fortunate that he could see such things, and that he, at least, could bring fulfillment to women.

At last, he took a settling breath and then advanced silently down the hall, marking the way the shadows and tiny lays of light mirrored off the silvered candle reflectors slipped across his body. He thought that if he was mindful, he might someday be able to feel the touch of the light, and of the dark.

Without knocking, he opened the door the potbellied man had come from and stepped into her room, gratified to see that it was nearly as dim as the hall. With a finger, he shut the door.

Behind the door, the woman was just pulling her panties up her legs. She spread her knees and squatted a bit, drawing them up tight against herself. When her sky-blue eyes finally turned up to look at him, her only reaction was to toss the sides of her robe together over the rest of her bare body and casually flip the silk belt together into a loose knot.

The air carried the odor of the hot coals in the warming pan under the bed, the weak but clean aroma of soap, the light fragrance of body powder, and the cloying scent of a sickly sweet perfume. But pervading it all, like the darkness that shaped shadows, was the lingering smack of lust, pointed with the arresting scent of semen.

The room had no windows. The bed, covered with stained, rumpled sheets, was pushed into the far corner. Even though it wasn’t large, the bed took up a good part of the room. Against the wall, beside the head of the bed, sat a small, simply made pine chest, probably for personal items. On the wall over the head of the bed hung an ink drawing of two people coupled in passion. It left nothing to the imagination.

A washbasin sat centered on a wobbly-looking cabinet beside her, behind the door. In its edge, the white washbasin had a stained, kidney-shaped chip, with a crack that looked like an artery coming from the kidney. The cloth hanging over the side of the basin still dripped. The milky water in the basin gently sloshed from side to side. She had just washed herself.

They each had their own habits. Some didn’t bother to wash, but they were usually the older, unattractive ones who were paid little, and cared little. He had noticed that the younger, prettier, more expensive women washed after each man. He preferred the ones who washed before he came to them, but in the end, his lust overrode such trivial matters.

He idly wondered if those he had been with who were not professionals ever gave thought to such things. Probably not. He doubted that others pondered such curious particulars. Others gave little thought to the texture of details.

Other women, women looking for love, satisfied him, but not in the same way. They always wanted to talk, and to be wooed. They wanted. He wanted. In the end, his want overrode what he would prefer, and he gave them some of what they wanted before his needs could be satisfied.

“I thought I was finished for the night,” she said. Her words came out silky smooth, with a pleasant, pert lilt, but bore no real interest at the prospect of another man this late.

“I think I’m the last,” he said, trying to sound apologetic so as not to anger her. It wasn’t as satisfying if they were angry. He liked nothing more than when they were eager to please.

She sighed. “All right, then.”

She showed no fear at having a man simply walk into her room without knocking, even though she was hardly wearing anything, nor did she make any demands for money. Silas Latherton, downstairs, with his cudgel and a long knife in his belt, made sure the women had nothing to fear. He also didn’t let anyone go up the stairs unless they paid in advance, so the women didn’t have to be bothered with the trouble of collecting money. It insured that he, rather than they, kept control of the income, and its distribution.

Her short, straight blond hair was disheveled, from mister potbelly, no doubt, but he found its disorder alluring. It was a suggestive indication of what she had just been doing. It lent her an erotic look—a look he very much liked.

Her body was shapely and firm, with long legs and wonderfully formed breasts, at least what he had seen of her body before she had thrown closed her robe. He would see it again, and could wait.

The anticipation added to his excitement. Unlike her other men, he was in no rush to have it over. Once it began, it would be over all too quickly. He could never stop himself, once it began. For the moment, he would relish all the little details, so that he could capture them in his memory for all time.

She was more than simply pretty, he decided. She was a creature possessed of features that would fire men’s minds with obsessive memories of her, and make them return time and time again to try, if only for fleeting moments, to possess her. The confidence with which she carried her body told him that she knew this. The frequency with which men spent money to have her was a constant reinforcement of that confidence.

Those features, though, no matter their grace and haunting beauty, had an acidic edge to them, a harshness that betrayed her true character. No doubt other men saw only the sweet face and never noticed.

He noticed. He noticed such subtle things, and he had seen this detail often. It always looked the same. It was a baseness her fair features couldn’t hide from one such as himself.

“Are you new?” he asked, even though he knew she was.

“First day here,” she said. He knew that, too. “Aydindril is big enough to mean clients for me, but with a huge army here, it’s all the better. Blue eyes around here aren’t all that common; my blue eyes remind the D’Haran soldiers of girls from home. So many extra men mean women like me are in greater demand.”

“And it insures a better wage.”

She allowed herself a small, smug, knowing smile. “If you couldn’t afford it, you wouldn’t be up here, so cut the complaints.”

He had only meant to make an observation, and regretted the way she took it. Her voice betrayed an underlying, acerbic temperament. He sought to smooth away the ripple of her displeasure with him.

“Soldiers can sometimes get rough with a young woman as attractive as you.” The compliment didn’t register in her sky-blue eyes. She had probably heard it so often that she was numb to such praise. “I’m glad you came to Silas Latherton,” he went on. “He doesn’t let any of his clients rough up the young ladies. You’ll be safe, here, under his roof. I’m glad you came here.”

“Thanks.” Her tone carried no warmth, but the ripple, at least, had been smoothed. “I’m glad to hear his reputation is known to his clients. I got slammed around, once. I didn’t like it. Besides the pain, I couldn’t work for a month.”

“That must have been terrible. The pain, I mean.”

She tilled her head toward the bed. “You going to take off your clothes, or what?”

He said nothing, but gestured to her robe. He watched her slip loose the knot from the satin belt.

“Have it your way,” she said, as she shrugged the robe open just enough to tempt him into getting on with it.

“I’d like . . . I’d like you to enjoy it, too.”

She lifted an eyebrow. “Darling, don’t you worry about me. I’ll enjoy it just fine. You’ll no doubt thrill me. But you’re the one who paid for it. Let’s just worry about your pleasure.”

He liked to hear the tempered thread of sarcasm in her voice. She cloaked it well with a breathy tone, and others might have missed it, but he had been listening for it.

Carefully, slowly, one at a time, he placed four small gold coins on the washstand beside her. It was ten times what Silas Latherton, downstairs, charged for his women’s company, and probably thirty times what he gave her for each man. She watched the coins as he withdrew his hand, as if counting them to herself to make sure she was seeing what she thought she was seeing. It was a great deal of money. She gave him a questioning look.

He liked the twitch of confusion in her eyes. Women like this weren’t often confused by money, but she was young, and probably never had a man bestow such largess on her before. He liked it that it impressed her. He knew that few things would.

“I’d like you to enjoy yourself. I’m willing to pay to see you enjoying yourself.”

“Darling, for that much, you’ll remember my screams until you’re an old man.”

Of that, he was sure.

She smiled her best smile, and slipped off the robe. Gazing at him with her big, sky-blue eyes, she blindly hung the robe on a peg in the back of the door.

She stroked his chest and then circled her arms around his waist. Gently but deliberately, she squashed her firm breasts against him.

“So what is it you want, darling? Some nice clawmarks down your back to make your young lady jealous?”

“No,” he said. “No, I just want to see you enjoying it. You’re so fair of face and figure. I think that if you’re paid will enough, you’ll enjoy your part, that’s all. I want to know that you’re enjoying yourself.”

She eyed the coins and then smiled up at him. “Oh, I will, darling. I promise. I’m a very talented whore.”

“That was what I was hoping.”

“I want you to be so pleased with my charms that you will want to return to my bed.”

“You seem to be reading my mind.”

“My name is Rose,” she whispered in her breathy voice.

“A name as beautiful as you are.”

And as unoriginal.

“And yours? What should I call you when you call on me regularly, as I’m already aching for you to do?”

“I like the name you’ve already given me. I like the sound of it on your lips.”

She licked her lips for him. “Glad to meet you, darling.”

He slipped a finger under the waist of her panties. “Can I have these?”

She ran her fingers down his belly, performing a moan at the feel of him. “It’s the end of a long day. These aren’t exactly . . . clean. I have some clean ones in my trunk. For what you’ve paid, you can have as many of them as you wish. Darling, you can have them all, if you wish.”

“These will do fine. I only need these.”

She smirked up at him. “I see. Like that, is it?”

He didn’t answer.

“Why don’t you take them off me,” she teased. “Take your prize.”

“I’d like to watch you do it.”

Without hesitation, she slipped them down her legs as dramatically as she could. She pressed herself up against him again and, looking into his eyes, stroked his cheek with her panties. She smiled wickedly and then pushed them into his hand.

“Here you go. Just for you, darling. Just the way you like them—with the scent of Rose.”

He worked them in his fingers, feeling the warmth of her still in them. She stretched up to kiss him. If he hadn’t known better, known what she was he might have thought she wanted him more than anything else in life. But he would please her.

“What do you want me to do for you?” she whispered. “Name it, and it’s yours—and I don’t make that offer to my other men. But I want you so badly. Anything. Just tell me.”

He could smell the sweat of the other men on her. He could smell the stink of their lust on her.

“Let’s just see how things work out, shall we, Rose?”

“Anything you say, darling.” She smiled dreamily. “Anything.” She winked at him as she swept the four gold coins from the washstand. She swayed provocatively as she went to the small trunk. She squatted down before it. He had been wondering if she would squat, or bend at the waist. He was satisfied at the detail, at the remnant of a demure past.

As she pushed the coins under some of her clothes in the chest, he saw atop her things a small pillow decorated with a dash of red. Such a detail intrigued him. It seemed out of place.

“What’s that?” he asked, knowing that the money had earned her indulgence.

She held it up for him to see. It was small pillow, an item of decoration, a frivolity. It had a red rose embroidered on it.

“I made it, when I was younger. I staffed it with cedar shaving, so it would smell nice.” She glided her fingers lovingly over the rose. “My namesake—a rose. For Rosa. My father named me. He was from Nicobarese. Rosa means ‘rose’ in his language. He always called me his little Rosa, and said that I grew in the garden of his heart.”

The detail astonished him. He was thrilled to know something so intimate about her. He felt as if he already possessed her. The pleasure of knowing such a small, seemingly insignificant thing pounded through his veins.

As he watched her replace the little packet of her past into her trunk, he wondered at her father, wondered if he knew where she was, or if perhaps he had sent her away in revulsion, his rose wilted in his heart. He imagined an angry scene. He wondered at her mother—if her mother understood her choice in life, or cried at a daughter lost. Now he, too, was playing a part in who she was, in her life.

“May I call you Rosa?” he asked, as she closed the lid of her trunk. “It’s such a lovely name.”

She looked back over her shoulder. Her eyes watched his fingers working her underpants into a tight ball.

She returned to him, smiling as she came. “You’re my special man, now. I’ve never told another man my true name. It would give me pleasure to hear my given name on your lips.”

His heart pounded, and he swayed on his feet with his need. “Thank you, Rosa,” he whispered, and he truly meant it. “I want so much to please you.”

“Your hands are trembling.”

They always did, until he started. Then, they were rock steady. Once he started, he would be steady. It was just the anticipation.

“I’m sorry.”

A throaty, lusty laugh came from deep in her throat. “Don’t be. It excites me that you would be nervous.”

He wasn’t nervous, not in the least, but he was excited.

Her hands found that he was. “I want to taste you.” She licked his ear. “I have no one else tonight. We have all the time we want to enjoy this.”

“I know,” he whispered back. “That’s why I wanted to be last.”

“Yes,” she teased, “I want it to last, too. Can you make it last, darling?”

“I can, and I will,” he promised. “A long time.”

She let out a purr of satisfaction at his promise, and turned in his arms, pressing her bottom against him. She arched her back and rocked her head against his chest as she moaned again. He kept the smirk from his face as he looked down into her sky-blue eyes. Yes, she was a talented whore.

He slid his hand down her lower spine, counting her vertebrae, fingering the spaces between them. She moaned urgently at his touch.

Because of the way she swayed her bottom, he missed the spot he wanted.

She staggered.

The second time he slammed the knife into her lower back, he hit the right spot, between the vertebrae, severing her spinal cord.

He swept an arm around her middle to hold her up. The shocked, grunting moan was real, this time. Anyone in the other rooms wouldn’t think it any different from the sounds she regularly made for men. Others didn’t notice such details. He did, and savored the difference.

As her mouth widened to scream, he stuffed it full with the wadded ball of her dirty underpants. He timed it just right, so only the cry of the gasp sounded, before the pitch rose. He yanked the silk tie from her robe on the peg beside him and whirled it around her head four times to hold the gag in her mouth. With one hand, and the aid of his teeth, he drew it tight and knotted it.

He would have liked to have listened to her heartfelt screams, but that would bring a premature end to their pleasure. He loved the screams, the cries. They were always sincere.

He pressed his mouth against the side of her head. He could smell the sweat of men in her hair.

“Oh, Rosa, you are going to please me so. You are going to give me more pleasure than you’ve ever given any man before. I want you to enjoy it, too. I know this is what you always wanted. I’m the man you’ve been waiting for. I’ve come at last.”

He let her slip to the floor. Her legs were useless, now. She wasn’t going anywhere.

She tried to punch him between his legs. He caught her dainty little fist in his hand. He watched her wide, sky-blue eyes as he pressed open her fist. He held her palm between his thumb and a finger, and bent it down until the bones in her wrist snapped.

He used the arms of her robe to bind her hands, so that she couldn’t pull the gag from her mouth. His heart hammered as he listened to her muffled wails. He couldn’t understand the words against the gag, but they heightened his excitement because he could feel their pain.

A storm of emotion rampaged through his mind. At least the voices were silent, for now, leaving him to his lust. He wasn’t sure what the voices were, but he was sure that he was only able to hear them because of his singular intellect; he was able to seine such evanescent messages from the ethers because of his incomparable perception, and because he minded the details.

Tears flooded down her face. Her perfectly plucked brows bunched together, lifting in the middle, furrowing the skin on her forehead into neat rows. He counted them, because he was special.

With wide, anguished, sky-blue eyes, she watched as he removed his clothes and set them aside. It wouldn’t do to have them soaked in blood.

The knife was rock steady in his hand now. He stood above her, naked and erect, to show her what a good job she was doing for him, so far.

And then he began.