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

A burst of pain filled Lot's head. He continued, slowly, his ministrations, but his hands lost their rhythm; their desire to please. Where was that from? The pain above nearly matched the yearning below. A burning desire, an inflammation, a thirst that must be quenched.

What to do?

He could not run from this place. Couldn't stir himself. There would be a release here. The animal instincts demanded it.

And he would leave no tribute for the Goddess. The seed was sacred. Abraham's God deemed it so.

He stumbled away for a moment, returned, crushing the Priestess now.

“Lot? What? OK-Lot, OK.”

Lot would give nothing to the Goddess. This was her plan, the witch. Somehow, she'd taken over him, made him drink from the wines that had given dreams. How could she? How could she!

Lot slapped her. Crack! Again, his fist came down. The Priestess bled, staring at him in shock. But no tears emerged. Some other look in her eyes. A knowing look. It enraged him. Crack! From the other side, the back of his hand surged against the face of the Priestess. She would not smirk at him.

“You would trap me in your filthy lusts?”

“As a man to a woman, Lot. Hardly filthy.”

Crack!

“You would take my seed?”

“The Goddess insists. She is quite wise in the strange ways of men. She knows of your needs.” Again, the knowing eyes. Lot reared back once more to deliver a blow, the Priestess turned her face slightly, giving him a better approach to her cheeks.

“Leave a mark,” she said, “let everyone know Lot was here!”

Lot drew away once more. Infuriated now. He pounded his fists against the couch where they'd lay. What would it take from her? How to regain He remembered his days as a shepherd. Long ago in the flocks, before God had come to Abram. The peculiar satisfactions he'd enjoyed there.

Something in his face unnerved her. She glanced at him coldly. Warily. It would take an instant.

“Lot? Would you like me to get you a switch?”

Lot did not answer, again covering the Priestess with his bulk. He listened for a moment. They were alone in the temple. She twisted slightly, placing her own arms near her neck, ready to fend off any efforts at a chokehold. Lot smiled, raising his legs, flipped her over on her stomach, like the Sabbath Eve drunks who haunted his winestand.

“Lot!” she cried, voice muffled now as he thrust her face against the surface of the couch. Better, then, not to see her eyes. Better still that she could no longer speak. No longer taunt him with her witch words.

Cruelly, left hand pressing against her neck, he slipped his right between her legs. She was wet there. He played for a moment against the lips, then pressed her butt down, hard, against the surface.

Mounting, he drove hard into the other hole, where never before had he passed. The entry was tight, tight, tight, blocking him, then with a barely muffled shriek, he was through, as though in a vast cavern.

“Lot!” She cried, but already he bucked quickly against her, the rage of so many days' torment in the marketplace, so much mockery, so much indifference bearing in. “AGHHH!” Shrilled the Priestess. Lot did not care. He accelerating his thrusts, saw blood emerge from the outside of the hole.

Not his, he grunted to himself as he spread his seed on the Goddess' shit. Not his blood.

The Priestess was weeping. Quietly, but Lot saw the sobs rack her body, the slight tears against the couch. She did not know everything of men.

He was satisfied.

Standing, he wiped himself on her regal garment, swept the blood away into the gossamer silks. Her humiliation pleased him. He laughed as he dressed.

Her face still held against the couch. Lot saw the beginnings of a bruise there. Several bruises. As though she'd been stoned in the square. She should consider herself lucky.

His feet reached the entrance when she reared like a snake and said the words:

“Remember, Lot. I have the protection of the City. That which is done unto me shall be done unto you. Tenfold.”

She hurled an amulet against his thigh, cutting him.

Lot felt fear, and raced out of the temple.

He knew, as he ran, that the city could no longer offer protection. He and his wife; his daughters-they had to flee now. He could go to Abraham, then. No, not live as a supplicant. Not again, be a burden to family. The cities of the plain had soldiers. There was no succor for him among kind.

To Zohar, then. But the pickings in that town were slim. Little place for his business there. Little indeed for any business in the weakest of the five towns. Gomorrah-no, they had a sister temple. The two cities were twins. No escape, then, save for the desert. Or the caves.

Yes, he could take his family to the caves.

But how? His wife would obey. His children would obey. But for how long? How could he keep them in hand? He knew they would run off. The women, with their gossip, would tell the city dwellers where they stayed now. Always women. Always gossip about the hardship; the suffering; the men.

How to keep them in hand for the months-years ahead-after their time spent, absorbing so many bad ideas from this city? How could he survive without them to gather water, fetch clothes, find husbands?

How?

In the distance, he heard revelers returning. The delights of the festival were too brief.

He had little time to plan.

A torch running near the city wall gave him his best option. Burn. Burn the city! Burn it all! If he could destroy this horrid, wretched place, he could flee. In peace. With ease.

His eyes imagined it, the bricks crumbling away, the dark underside of the wine bin erupting with fury. The pagan temple, destroyed. Aye, that was the way of it. The dream.

But, could he still maintain comfort on his own? Without a wife to feed him, to keep his clothes. He was not young. And the children, his daughters, could they find him a comfortable place?

He'd hate to go back to Abraham.

And her, oh, yes. He could force her out. Could drag her to Egypt if need be. But he could not escape that tongue. That horrid tongue. And those accusing eyes. It had been so long since he'd had peace. Since he'd had a home to himself. Since there was order in his household.

No order. No purpose. He would burn his house. The torch approached. Ah, yes, he decided. Simply to fire it. Toss a few bottles of wine around. Run for the gates of the city. None would ever know he'd survived. Let the city burn. Let the family burn.

A waste, that. His daughters. So lovely in the morning. Undisciplined. Arrogant. Foolish. Vain women. But lovely in the morning. How could he dispense with them so cavalierly? There might be something for them to do yet. Caring for him in the cold dark caves, far from Zohar. How could he-these images, so destructive. He didn't know how they came into his mind.

Lot stopped running.

How to control the pictures in his mind?

He was sure now. The wine was one bottle of many. The tainted vintage. Yes, that had given so many other visions. Its magic still had an effect. Lot was used to this magic. A powerful wizard.

His family, not so much, yet. His poor wife had drunk such a bottle once. She'd seen spiders chasing her. Spiders the size of a horse. Lot had laughed at her then, enjoying her terror. She'd never known where the vision came from. He never told her, merely held on to the bottles.

One sip.

Spiders the size of a horse.

But he forgot himself. Was it then, as bad for her, as he'd imagined? Had she played with him? Seeing fake threats? Wouldn't put it past her. Always, to taunt him. To put him in a place. Would it always be thus with women? Stealing control from men?

Spiders the size of a horse.