CHAPTER 28: THE CEREMONY

Daxon couldn’t find the right words to reply. The thought of being so unlucky kept roaming his skull like a restless specter. Not that he wished himself dead—far from it—but why, in all infernal timing, did his punishment have to be worse? The rest were simply beheaded.

He, however, if he failed, would be punished by a method God alone knew. Like the Queen had said: be-dicked alive. Just imagining it made his gut clench. He would not, God forbid learn what it felt like to have his manhood chopped off while still conscious. That would never be his portion.

"Go and prepare him for the ceremony," the Queen ordered, her voice as cold and remote as Antarctica, the kind of coldness that is hard to bend and impossible to thaw. Once she gave an order it stood like stone; no amount of pleading could chip it away.

The guards dragged Daxon out of the room.

...

Moments later, Daxon was already being given a long, warm, refreshing bath by two silent women. Steam curled up around him like thin fingers, carrying away grime and fear.

Soon after, he was ushered into another chamber, what he imagined must be a wing of some huge castle, where he was to be dressed for the ceremony, or as he liked to call it, the "fucking ceremony."

The room itself looked as though it had stepped out of a dream carved centuries ago. Robes of every hue hung from hooks and mannequins; deep crimsons, royal purples, sea-green and gold, each woven in ancient patterns, the fabrics heavy and whispering like old secrets when the air moved.

Along the walls were carved panels of oak darkened with age, above them faded murals of long-forgotten heroes whose painted eyes seemed to follow Daxon’s movements.

A huge mirror framed in tarnished silver occupied one side of the chamber, reflecting candlelight so it danced like tiny spirits across the floor. The scent of incense and dried herbs clung to everything.

He sat before that mirror while a huge white man attended to him. The man’s outfit looked at first glance like pajamas, but on second glance it was far older, ceremonial in its own right: loose, flowing trousers of cream linen tucked into soft leather boots, a belted tunic embroidered with discreet symbols of needle and comb, sleeves rolled to the elbow for ease of work.

He was clearly a master of his craft, the kind of dresser who could turn any doomed soul into a prince for one last night.

Daxon glared at his reflection. This Stevon body now looked... hot. His blue hair gleamed like silken thread. His face had been arranged by the man’s skilled hands into something that could make women collapse at a mere glimpse.

His skin practically called out to be touched. The robe they’d chosen for him draped in regal folds. At times, Daxon also glared at the man dressing him, and sometimes their eyes met in the mirror; the man would only grunt, low and unbothered.

Meanwhile, the hawk’s absence flitted across his mind, but should that really be bothering him now?

He exhaled. A question had been bothering him, and he was sure that since this man dressed everyone who went to the Queen, he might have some answers.

"Ahhh, I’m Stevon," he tried, his voice sounding awkward even to his own ears.

The man didn’t reply. He only grunted and cast a look at the mirror that ricocheted into Dax’s face.

Dax swallowed but didn’t keep mute.

"Okay, I’ll just call you Triple-M. Stands for Motherfucken Make-Up Man."

Another grunt. No flicker of annoyance. The man’s calmness left Dax wondering if he was even sane.

"Okay then, Triple-M... would you happen to know how many people that have done this?"

The man stared at the mirror and grunted again, busy dressing Daxon with steady hands.

"Come on, man, stop being an ass and help your fellow man. I might die in there."

Still nothing. He was already packing up his tools when the door opened and two guards entered.

"It’s time," one of them chimed. An icy spear of dread slid down Dax’s spine.

Calmly he stood up and walked towards them, but before leaving he turned to the huge man.

"Well, thanks for the interesting conversation, Triple-M. You’re so full of vibes."

The guards led him out.

The last time Dax had passed through these halls he’d been carried, a black bag over his head, blind to everything.

Now he walked under his own power, more like a condemned man walking to a pending death by be-dicking, or to make it more tongue-sweet, death by be-cocking.

They ascended a spiraling staircase whose stone steps were worn smooth by centuries, emerging into an open hallway lined with wall sconces holding fat candles that cast a golden glow across carved archways. After a few more steps they were standing before the Queen’s door.

One of the guards knocked softly, twice.

It took a moment before the door yawned open, and Daxon was pushed inside. The door shut behind him with a heavy click.

Seated adjacent to her bed was the Queen.

Queen Seraphyne.

She wore a very light white linen that glimmered under the golden candlelight. The fabric was so fine that traces of her skin could be discerned beneath it. The front of the linen was lifted by her massive, succulent breasts, and the hem ended at her thighs, showcasing the sculpted curves of her legs as they rested on a little stool.

She was slowly massaging her thigh with an oily cream; each stroke made her skin glisten and glow, the muscles shifting like satin over steel.

Her thigh was a feast of curves; firm yet soft, luminous under the flickering light, every movement of her hand a silent promise.

Daxon’s eyes fixed helplessly on the twin orbs of her chest, the urge to have her already drowning him. But beneath the rising tide of lust he was fidgeting, very nervous, his throat tight as though tears might spill at any second.

"Come on in, Stevon," the Queen murmured. Her voice was low, a whisper of velvet and sin, sliding into Dax’s core as he stepped forward.

She rose, her full figure now in view; especially her round, calling hips.

With a slow, predatory catwalk that made her rear sway and her breasts quiver, she crossed to him.

She rubbed her hand across her own chest before sliding it down between his legs, making Dax shiver at the touch.

She leaned close, tongue trailing his ear before whispering, "I hope you are ready for this ceremony."

Dax felt his "junior" stirring, eager to rise. But what if he didn’t max her orgasm? That would mean the nightmare would see his end. He swallowed hard; all he could do was nod.

"Good," the Queen said, pulling back with a languid, sexy movement.

He breathed out. Her closeness was intoxicating, almost suffocating.

"Take off your clothes and climb onto the bed."

He raised a brow but shoved away the blooming thought. Lowering himself onto the bed, his nervousness climbed higher.

He was about to start undressing when the Queen lowered herself too and crawled up to him. With a gentle-forceful push she pressed him fully onto the bed, then sat astride him.

"Oh no," Dax thought. It was exactly what he feared: everything here was ancient, even the lovemaking. Maybe that was why no one had ever managed to max her orgasm. The idea lightened his nervousness a little but not fully.

Meanwhile, the Queen had already lifted her cloth and begun unravelling his. She untied the belt that held his pants and was about to pull them off when Daxon suddenly bellowed:

"Wait!"

The Queen paused, startled, and raised an eyebrow.

"What?" she snapped.

Daxon’s breath came fast. He thought he had his nerves under control, but they betrayed him. He breathed deep, cooling himself.

If he was going to win this, he had to do it his way, entangled with the gift inside him, the gift from the Devil.

Since entering this nightmare he’d felt empty, the gift subdued, but now he understood: it was the host body dampening it.

"Ma’am," he said, sitting up.

"Would you allow me do this my way... trust me, you will enjoy it."

The Queen’s face was stern at first, then a little smirk flitted across her lips.

"..."