to massage the oil into Meg’s skin. She was a gifted masseuse, taking great pains to rub the ambery oil into Meg’s breasts. It smelled of hazelnuts, smoky and rich. It took her breath away. It was like a drug pulling her under, while heightening her senses at the same time. It was passing strange. Every pore came to life as Zeona rubbed and tweaked and circled her tall, erect buds, massaging the oil into them until they glowed. The heat it generated relieved her sore skin. If she only wasn’t so dizzy all of a sudden.
Zeona’s hands slid lower, following the contours of Meg’s torso, working the oil into her navel and along her thighs. Mariet’s hands worked her breasts now, and Isobel had parted her legs and spread them open for Zeona to knead the oil into Meg’s pubic curls. As dazed as a lord drunk on mulberry wine, Meg fought the waves of vertigo that starred her vision, but it was no use. The pungent scent of hazelnuts threading through her nostrils had rendered her helpless as Zeona spread her nether lips and opened her slit. One—two of the handmaiden’s fingers dripping the woodsy-scented oil slipped into her vagina, slathering the oil on her hardened bud, rubbing it deep inside her in circular revolutions that arched Meg’s back off the fur rug as if she’d been launched from a catapult. She groaned. Whatever was in the oil had awakened every nerve ending in her body until the tactile element of the massage became a painful experience—an excruciating ecstasy that cried for release. Meg’s whole body throbbed with it.
She was slipping further and further away. Subdued by the drug the handmaidens had rubbed into her skin, she’d become docile, almost semiconscious. “W-what are you doing to me?” she murmured thickly.
“Does it really matter?” one of them said. Meg couldn’t tell which one, though their voices were hardly similar. Now, under the influence of whatever they had administered through the oil, the laughter and chatter of all three sounded like it was coming from an echo chamber.
She scarcely felt them roll her over on her stomach. The coarse fur beneath her, rubbing against her engorged bud—grabbing her vulva as they moved her—caused shockwaves of riveting fire to course through her swollen sex. Her nether parts seemed gargantuan, as if the swelling had forced them to turn inside out.
The handmaidens had begun massaging the oil over her back, over the globes of her buttocks and the curve of her thighs. One of them spread her legs again. Another raised her hips, while the third massaged the oil into the tender skin between her sheath and her anus, penetrating it lightly to smear the thick, hazelnut-scented stuff inside the edge of the puckered rim.
Then she was on her back again. The handmaidens had removed their loin cloths. How odd: their pubic curls were shorn. Their nether lips and clitoris were visible, their pelvises as smooth as a baby’s bottom. Moving as if time had slowed to a snail’s pace, all three handmaidens descended on her, on her breasts, on her navel, on the throbbing, tormented flesh between her thighs, sucking, stroking, laving until she feared she would go mad, helpless to prevent what they were doing to her and to each other.
It went on forever. Weak and wet from involuntary climax after climax and the strange effects of the hazelnut-scented oil, Meg lay helpless while they fondled, stroked and caressed her. Was this it, her preparation? Her heart was aching for Simeon’s embrace. Was this some sort of consolation? How could it be, when they knew nothing of her alignment with the Lord of the Deep?
Just when she feared she would die before she could bear more, they eased her into the steaming tub and formed a semicircular arc around her while they stroked and laved and palmed each other’s breasts, then bathed each others’ nether parts inside and out in the silkened water.
Had she died? And if so, was this heaven or hell? Still under the foggy
Zeona’s hands slid lower, following the contours of Meg’s torso, working the oil into her navel and along her thighs. Mariet’s hands worked her breasts now, and Isobel had parted her legs and spread them open for Zeona to knead the oil into Meg’s pubic curls. As dazed as a lord drunk on mulberry wine, Meg fought the waves of vertigo that starred her vision, but it was no use. The pungent scent of hazelnuts threading through her nostrils had rendered her helpless as Zeona spread her nether lips and opened her slit. One—two of the handmaiden’s fingers dripping the woodsy-scented oil slipped into her vagina, slathering the oil on her hardened bud, rubbing it deep inside her in circular revolutions that arched Meg’s back off the fur rug as if she’d been launched from a catapult. She groaned. Whatever was in the oil had awakened every nerve ending in her body until the tactile element of the massage became a painful experience—an excruciating ecstasy that cried for release. Meg’s whole body throbbed with it.
She was slipping further and further away. Subdued by the drug the handmaidens had rubbed into her skin, she’d become docile, almost semiconscious. “W-what are you doing to me?” she murmured thickly.
“Does it really matter?” one of them said. Meg couldn’t tell which one, though their voices were hardly similar. Now, under the influence of whatever they had administered through the oil, the laughter and chatter of all three sounded like it was coming from an echo chamber.
She scarcely felt them roll her over on her stomach. The coarse fur beneath her, rubbing against her engorged bud—grabbing her vulva as they moved her—caused shockwaves of riveting fire to course through her swollen sex. Her nether parts seemed gargantuan, as if the swelling had forced them to turn inside out.
The handmaidens had begun massaging the oil over her back, over the globes of her buttocks and the curve of her thighs. One of them spread her legs again. Another raised her hips, while the third massaged the oil into the tender skin between her sheath and her anus, penetrating it lightly to smear the thick, hazelnut-scented stuff inside the edge of the puckered rim.
Then she was on her back again. The handmaidens had removed their loin cloths. How odd: their pubic curls were shorn. Their nether lips and clitoris were visible, their pelvises as smooth as a baby’s bottom. Moving as if time had slowed to a snail’s pace, all three handmaidens descended on her, on her breasts, on her navel, on the throbbing, tormented flesh between her thighs, sucking, stroking, laving until she feared she would go mad, helpless to prevent what they were doing to her and to each other.
It went on forever. Weak and wet from involuntary climax after climax and the strange effects of the hazelnut-scented oil, Meg lay helpless while they fondled, stroked and caressed her. Was this it, her preparation? Her heart was aching for Simeon’s embrace. Was this some sort of consolation? How could it be, when they knew nothing of her alignment with the Lord of the Deep?
Just when she feared she would die before she could bear more, they eased her into the steaming tub and formed a semicircular arc around her while they stroked and laved and palmed each other’s breasts, then bathed each others’ nether parts inside and out in the silkened water.
Had she died? And if so, was this heaven or hell? Still under the foggy
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