Kenton Barr: Lot: Or the righteous man's guide to incest

In a moment, he walked to the far end of the city. Where giant ziggurats lay. None met him to ask his business. No guard or neighbor to mock. The temple approached, bare breasts on marble pillars. He strode up past the torchlit steps. This temple was always open.

“Hello, Lot,” said one.

Lot looked over. The High Priestess herself. She'd passed by his stall with her entourage. Her eunuchs. Her men.

“I thought you might come today.”

“Why would you think that?”

“Call it divine intuition.”

Lot sputtered at this blasphemy.

“Oh, Lot. You must not be so dismissive of our older religion. Our own knowledge.”

“It is of nothing. The knowledge of a hundred beasts… are as stones.”

“And yet, you are here. Would you not come inside to my chamber? Share a cool drink this hot evening?”

“Why? You invite me?”

“I do. And it would be foolish of you to refuse. You'll find the drinks we serve of a fine quality. One you have not tasted since-”

“Yes. Yes. Of course. I will come.”

The pair walked together through the temple. Tapestries flowed down the walls. But no guards or priestesses or worshippers today. Lot looked at her, puzzled.

“They've all gone, Lot. It's only you and me this evening. A quiet conversation.”

“Why?”

“To celebrate, Lot. To enjoy the festival. Why should I keep anyone here? The goddess protects me. And the men will be back soon enough.

Lot muttered to himself.

“What is so wrong about a goddess who would entertain men, Lot? You don't like it? Hmm. Something else to please you?” Her hand, teasingly, brushed Lot's neck. A drink was in his hand. How did it get there? So subtle, this one. A witch. Perfumes and incense filled the air.

“I appreciate you giving me this company, Lot,” the witch was saying. “For as you know, by our laws, I am protected here. The amulet given to me is from the whole of the city. Even from yourself. Anything done to my person, to our mistress' temple, such actions shall be revisited upon the giver. Tenfold. It is enough to give one comfort. And yet, knowing that, and knowing of her and her power, I still do not like to be alone.”

Lot looked closely at her. Not so young. A bit of gray spilled out through the henna-scented tresses. Eyes colored, face powdered. A harlot, this one. And the most powerful woman in the city.

More powerful than he.

“Come to my chamber, Lot. We shall dine there and discuss.”

“Discuss what?”

“Our gods, of course! Yours and mine.”

“I've no need to tell you of my God, woman. Why would you insult your guests, so?”

“I've no duty to you, Lot. But I will respect your feelings. Come. Sit. You've been on your feet in the hot sun all day. Here. Untie that.” She adjusted his robe. Lot barely moved, but his sandals were off. She'd found a pail of water. Began washing his feet.

“Be comfortable, Lot. Surely, with those women in your household, you're well-taken care of.”

“I am a working man. I have no servants.”

“But you had them once, Lot. Surely, comforts are there in your household.”

“God has given us a hard existence. We abide. All of us. There is no time to indulge in petty luxury.”

“Well,” said the priestess, “then I suppose I shouldn't wash your other foot. No, come. I take pride in my work. Move your leg. There. Ahh, yes. A bit of scrubbing, then. So tense, Lot. It is only your feet. Surely there are no scrolls prohibiting this contact.”

“I-no. There are no scrolls.”

“Nor are there in mine. I should hope not. One could only imagine how dirty the floors might get in her temple.

“You laugh at me.”

“Not at all, Lot. I take you quite seriously. Did you know, beneath that hair? Under those scowling eyes, you are quite handsome?” Her eyes sparkled with laughter.

Lot said nothing.

“Now rest there a moment,” she said, and disappeared behind a veil of incense smoke.

Lot fell back against the cushion. What was wrong with him today? He'd bantered about with the witch before. Always he asserted himself. His god. And the laws of Abraham. Never before had their encounters been so-domestic. Was that it? He should leave. Now. Before “Here we are,” she came back. In her hands a full washtub. So slight, this one. How could she hold such a thing? Was there someone with her? Was he not seeing? Lot wondered. The wine he'd drunk. It sat next to the strange rice. Next to it. He'd had one of those bottles. A giver of visions. He'd not wanted to have it again. But could not throw it away.

Had he poisoned himself?

“Hold a moment,” the priestess said. “I'll take the grime from you, but not get it on these garments.

She twirled slightly. One edge of the robe sliding out. The other. She spun around, pulled the gauzy fabric away from her body. Lot watched as the priestess unveiled herself. The breasts, magnificent, swayed in the air. Now her legs pulled free of the skirt. Nothing between them now save his own robe.

Which she had removed.

Enchanting.

“Lie face down, Lot. I'll clean you.”

He did as told. Her hands worked hard against his flesh. Lot pulled back, slightly, from the edge. He felt her scrub at him, working the harsh soap into his skin. First one stroke. Another. A bit of pain. His back clean then, yes, but he regained some portion of himself under her ministrations.

A splash of water. Another. Lot felt the hands again. No soap this time. She worked again his muscles, pulling years from the joints, working down deep into the nerves. Harshly. Professionally. Soothingly.

Then with a sigh, the muttering stopped. She stood above him for a moment, then pressed closer. Lot shifted his face forward, saw the slender calves, delicate knees, and above, the slight wisps of hair-blonde hair, with the lips at the end. He'd longed for such a firm, clean place to rest. His hand reached forward.

“Ahh,” she said, moaning slightly as Lot's fingers traced the edge. She bent against him, her nipples rubbing lightly against his back. Lot stroked; she stroked. Now lips brushed down. She moved towards his butt, playing against the cheeks with her fingers. Lot hadn't known this one was so tall. Still she lingered. Touching him, teasing him, 'til Lot could bear no more.

“Unnhh!” he moaned, rolling over. The Priestess nearly fell against the bed, but righted herself. Laughing. Lot gasped as he saw her again, her body glistening with sweat and moisture, the fluids dribbling off her, fiery beads in the torchlight. She twittered for a moment longer, then bent her head to his ear.

“Lot,” she said.

“Priestess.”

“Have you a small donation to make to the Goddess? You need not believe in her. But she wants something of you. Of course, you can understand…”

Lot understood. Understood all too well. He nodded, slightly. The priestess motioned. Lot stood up. She lay herself down. He crawled over her, kissing slightly at the firm breasts, feeling the round edge of her nipples.

“Ohh,” she sighed, as his tongue fell too, licking gently at the globes. His hands roamed now, circling the firm and tender flesh. Servant of the goddess, he worshipped her, sliding gently and delicately over her arms and legs.

“Wonderful, Lot,” said the Priestess, encouragingly. Lot did not hurry, bending now and again to kiss at her arms, her cheeks, her lips. He slid on top of her, pinning her beneath his bulk. So delicate, really. He'd not seen just how tiny this one was. Smaller even than his youngest daughter. But very much a woman for all that. Magnificent legs.

It was the regalia, he decided, that made her so impressive. She'd worn headdresses at times, or sat upon the dais. So intimidating, so powerful. More powerful even than “Lot? What?”