Page 40 of Degradation
Devin
We’re up at first light. It may have been a heavy night of drinking but none of it shows in our faces as we practice our drills and then take up our designated positions for the day.
The Chapter Lord is still in bed when we enter. The maids are quick to flit around, opening the curtains, ensuring there is coffee ready to pass to him because they don’t want a beating for being too slow.
As we stand by the sliding doors, I see something that makes me pause. In the bed beside him is a person, a figure.
Up to now, every morning we’ve found him alone. His wife is kept in a separate room, kept more like a sex slave than an actual spouse.
So who the fuck is this? I glance at Lyndon, he gives me a slight nod to acknowledge that he too has spotted the stranger.
Gunther sits up, pulling the covers and props himself against the pillows as he takes his coffee. The movement pulls the duvet away from the other persons legs and as I study them it takes me a second to realise who it is.
I’d recognise her anywhere. I’d recognise that skin, those freckles, even the curl of those toes– I stop myself. Stop that thought. What the fuck is wrong with me?
Gunther looks across at Lyndon and I and his lips curl into a smile that is almost pleasant. “My wife will be sleeping in my bed from now on.” He states. His eyes look fuzzy, his gaze is slightly off, like both his eyeballs are looking at slightly different things.
We both give a curt nod. We’ll have to pass that information on, ensure the rest of his personal guards are aware of the change in routine.
He plants a soft hand on her head, on where it’s half covered by the fabric. “She’s going to be a good little bitch for me now. She’s going to ride my cock and love every minute of it.”
We don’t respond to that. What does it matter what she does? She’s his wife. He can fuck her, beat her, share her about like he did last night, none of it really is our concern beyond ensuring they both are kept safe. At least, he is safe. She is only as safe as he decides she deserves to be.
He drinks his coffee, puts it on the side, then gets out, taking his usual walk of unashamed nakedness to the bathroom where he takes a shower before letting the maids dry him off and dress him.
The girl doesn’t move. I can’t tell if she’s asleep or simply too petrified but a part of me would love to walk over and pull that duvet back to see. Is she naked beneath it? Did he fuck her when we were done with her? Did he have her carried here, still covered in all our semen and then fucked her while she still stank of us?
My nostrils flare, my lips curl just enough.
I can’t even hear her breathing, and I have excellent hearing.
What I can hear is our dear Chapter Lord muttering. He’s doing it more and more. It’s nonsensical. It isn’t even English that he’s speaking.
Every so often he breaks out into a shout and everyone else can hear what I do.
The religious call it ‘speaking in tongues’. They call it speaking the language of the angels. But I know the words, even if the sentences make no sense. It’s Aramaic. The language Jesus himself spoke when he was made into man.
It’s a dead language or as good as. The only reason I know it is because some old fuck in Oblivion taught me. He was locked away, a political prisoner who still held enough sway to bribe my father to keep him in solitary.
Gunther continues on, rambling in half-sentences until he starts repeating the same words again and again.
“B’shem Alaha. B’shem Alaha. B’shem Alaha.”
I tense, more at the tone than the words.
He falls silent, jerking his head and then looks at Lyndon and me. “Let’s go.” He says with his eyes looking suddenly so focused it’s unnerving.
We follow him out, taking position with me to the right and Lyndon to the left.
This part of the Palace is usually deserted. Beyond the maids and cleaners there’s no real reason for anyone to be here. Gunther likes to receive his guests either in the Senate Chamberor the Great Hall which he prefers when he wants to particularly impress.
Our feet move silently despite the heavy boots we have on. Both of us are as stealthy as a fox. But Gunther slaps each foot down, and his leather soles make enough noise to wake the dead.
As we turn the corner into an inner courtyard Gunther practically hits the ceiling. We both react, grabbing our guns but there’s nothing there.
“Look.” He hisses pointing ahead.
I narrow my eyes but before I can take a step forward Gunther is running, sprinting, as if he’s on the attack.
