In Fledgling Whispers (Book 3 of The Transition of Pinn)

Rachel:

I see him.

As I so often do. He watches me. Watches for me. Watches out for me.

He peers through the see through curtains, the thin fabric only providing the illusion of privacy. My naked form on display for anyone with an interest.

I am not one of the lucky ones. Those chosen for the comfortable life as a partner to the upper classes of Pinn. A life of glitter jewels, dinner parties, a life of calm tranquility. Taken care of, loved, cared for. A life of ease where your only duty was to raise your children and enjoy their youth. That is not my life.

I am a priestess.

I could have been one of those favored partners: but I couldn’t give up that easily. I couldn’t hold back my rebelliousness. I could not just accept my new position, I had to try to escape the prison ship which transported me here to this forsaken alien planet. But where did that get me? I fought them every way I could and now I am nothing.

Movement causes the curtain to part ever so slightly and I can see his eyes more clearly now- how they caress my naked flesh. How they narrow over my exposed breasts and how they pause on my folds. I wonder how well he can see from across the room and in the dim light. Can he see my nipples pucker in the cold air? Can he see the bruises on my hips?

It doesn’t matter.

I am but a shell. Gone is my rebellion. Gone is my fight. They are somewhere with my freedom back on earth awaiting my return that will never happen.

Now I go through the motions. I do my duty, my job with no delight. I serve the worshipers of the goddess without thought to the consequences. A whore in the name of a messed up religious cult. Yet I care only for the comfort provided to me at the end of the day. The comfort I get if I am a good little priestess. If I do what they ask of me.

I held out for two months when I first arrived. I didn’t give in easily- my pride wouldn’t allow it. I spent two months down there- where resistance meets grief and rebellion meets pain. I still sometimes smell the stale smell of unchanged bedding, feel the dampness of moldy walls, and hear the soft footsteps on unswept floors. More often though, I hear the weeping of those who have not yet let go of their worth- giving in to their new situation, and the moaning of those in pain.

Here too I hear moaning. But this is the moaning of girls pretending to enjoy the attention of the worshipers as they submit to the use of their bodies for pleasure of others. Here is the musty smell of sex, not mold. The softly lit room is lined with beds with couples contorted in carnality. Moving together in a worshipful dance of pleasure. Through the thin curtains I can see the bodies moving together, gripping, feeling, grunting. I have seen it so often now it barely registers.

It’s a buffet of live sex for anyone who wants to venture into voyeurism, but he watches only me.

I hear the high pitched squeal of Ava next to me as she pretends to organism. As always her performance is majestic and it distracts me enough that I turn to her. On the bed next to me, the devoted worshiper fucks her roughly from behind clutching her breasts as he pounds himself towards the finishing line. Sweat drips off his face and onto her back. She turns to me and smiles.

She is a woman who has accepted her position with style. She has used it to her advantage. She has saved money for her nearing retirement. She has an apartment in the East District for herself and her five boys. Her two eldest are in a good school, paid for by her continued obedience.

In my six months, I have not thought about my future. I should think about saving for an apartment. I should think about how I can use my time as a priestess to guarantee my future. If I play my cards right, my retirement will be comfortable, wrong and I am destitute. Yet, I can’t seem to care. I can’t seem to do anything but go through the motions of my daily routine.

Perhaps if I were to get pregnant like the others, but 6 months in and there is no sign that will happen for me. Then I would have something to live for, someone to live for.

Rough hands squeeze my hips and I hear a grunt below me. I look down. My worshipers face is contorted in an ecstasy. Another pause and wait. Another satisfied worshiper, or not, it doesn’t matter. I climb off him and stand next to the bed to let him out. The grateful worshiper grabs him clothes and places a blue token on the bed, before walking off.

I glance back to where he was standing. He is gone and all that is there is the cold gray stone of the temple walls under the shadows left by the torches.

I turn away. It doesn’t matter.