Chapter 2

As it turned out, we didn’t end up in the cold steel of downtown Boston, or the much warmer milieu of Cambridge and the Charles River, or even the elite mansions near the shore of our earlier stay, but a defunct college on the western edge of Boston suburbs, probably rural when built, the original buildings in the mid nineteenth century. Hawkins College had originally been a seminary, then a school for lady teachers, then a liberal arts college of mixed genders with emphasis on both liberal and arts in the usual way those words are connoted. Nothing really took. So they gave up and sold the land and buildings to a trust, expecting demolishment and houses and apartments or something built on the valuable real estate. That hadn’t happened.

After a couple of days at the mansion we had stayed in before, with me reuniting with my sister, and getting that uh-oh moment of attraction, resisted for the moment, we headed to our new place.

“Wow,” I said several times.

Every building had been refurbished. What I imagined had been small, cramped dorm rooms had been transformed into much larger, luxurious apartments, the one my wives and I got, the largest, with, of course, a huge custom bed.

The administration building, which had also housed the library, had gotten similar treatment. Walls torn down. Rooms expanded and made more luxurious. Two impressive offices, one much larger than the other. A very comfortable meeting space made ready for hooking up computers to use for editing our books with a small room filled with servers connected to it.

The meeting room adjoined the library, also greatly improved if not expanded. Two floors filled with books and magazines and newspapers and various other media. Two computers and monitors sat at the head of a long table, most of the rest of the table with electrical and Bluetooth cords to attach to visitor’s laptops or whatever. Another computer with a scanner sat at a counter at the entrance to the library for the librarian.

The classroom building had been entirely transformed, becoming two floors of rehearsal space. The main floor had a large and a smaller space for dance, the floor built of giving slats of wood. Except for a nicely appointed men’s and women’s locker room, and a rounded wall on the opposite side, that’s about it. The second floor had been much more divided, with three larger rooms of descending size and several small rooms, all acoustically walled in various ways. The small rooms had been sound proofed. The larger rooms had as well, but also had various materials creating various acoustic ambiences. A sound booth stretched along the three larger spaces. A hallway between the larger rooms and the small ones led to the back, where the rounded wall continued from downstairs. Inside it, a thrust theater, almost a theater-in-the-round resided, our experimental theater space.

We had another theater, a very nice proscenium, in a fairly new building. Probably the same space where the original seminary had its chapel, which the liberal arts college tore down and built the theater. This is where we listened to and became transported into Nick’s Tales.

Finally, the college commons became our cafeteria, also much improved. It had a salad bar and steam tables, but also served sandwiches as good as any deli I ever tried. Open to the public, it kept a steady business, if not a crowded one. I had little doubt word-of-mouth would increase its success.

As a source of funds, I doubted it could recompense the enormous expenses Nick must have brought to this endeavor. Even a more lucrative source, renting some of the opulent apartments, couldn’t make much of a dent. Of course, without knowing any details, I imagined Nick to be enormously wealthy. He had a virtual army of minions doing his bidding and channeling any funds he might need, however much or little he wished to control those minions. Not to mention having a continuous life for him and his angels, meaning an uninterrupted accumulation of money. Nothing as annoying as death and inheritance causing uncontrollable vicissitudes. And, of course, he and his angel shared genius minds and centuries of experience.

“All this for a showcase?” I asked Nick.

“It’s our new headquarters,” he shrugged.

“Headquarters? I’d think by now, one of the huge glass and steel monstrosities downtown could barely hold all your businesses.”

“My headquarters, Joe. Mine and my angels, and yours possibly, not my minions’.”

I nodded. “That explains Rachel and Tilda.”

“What do you mean?”

“Just the two of them running things in that office.”

“Quite brilliantly and efficiently,” he smiled.

“Mother and daughter. Is Tilda yours?”

“Yes.”

“I can see Rachel’s attraction.”

“She wanted a child,” Nick shrugged. “We became great friends.”

“Lesbian?”

“Yes.”

“And the daughter?”

“You couldn’t tell?”

“Her attraction to me doesn’t mean anything. You know that. Even her mother was attracted.”

“Of course.”

“The twins?” I asked.

“Hmm?”

“They’re related to the twins?” Like Nick’s Irish twin angels, they were redheaded and petite. They even had that mischievous glint in their eyes.

“Yes. But Rachel’s much more interested in another ancestor. Her great-grandmother. Also named Rachel. She went to school at Vassar with a certain young beauty named Matilda. You remember her?”

“Claire’s teacher,” I nodded, “and lover. From early in your current skin.”

“They were best friends.”

“And lovers?”

“Briefly. They decided friendship was more important.”

“And Rachel wasn’t as gay.”

Nick laughed. “Much to her granddaughter’s annoyance. But of course she wouldn’t have ended up existing if Rachel hadn’t married.”

“And why is this important?”

“Because the ancestor married a man who became headmaster of this very place. They actually converted it to a teacher’s college. Matilda encouraged them, convinced them it could be done.”

“And you?”

“I backed them at Tilda’s insistence. Secretly of course.”

“So in a sense, this has always been yours.”

“True, but my interest waned until Rachel told me of its closing down.”

“So nostalgia and ancestor worship brought us here.”

“And Rachel got rewarded for her brilliant find.”

“Let me guess. Glass ceiling?”

“Always the assistant. Always secretary to the head honchos, despite being twice as smart.”

“And before her?”

“My money interest have been much more fluid. No real concentration. No CEO. No specific corporation actually. Pretty chaotic.”

“But you managed.”

“I’m quite good at chaos.”

“If Xo is master of contemplation, you’re the master of chaos.”

“Such an oxymoron, Joe,” he chuckled and shook his head.

“So, as an entity, you’ve never incorporated until now.”

“Things have changed. My angels and I have never gathered so long together. And, well...”

“The endgame.”

“Yes.”

“Whatever that is.”

“Yes.”

“So Tilda,” I changed the conversation, “is named after yours and Claire’s lover.”

“Rachel, for a level headed businesswoman, can be quite sentimental.”

“And the corporation’s name?”

“The Serpentine Corporation. I wanted Apple Corp, but of course it had been taken.”

“I hope there’s no apple in the logo.”

“It’s subliminal,” he smiled, handing me a card.

“Nickolas Postumus

Owner

The Serpentine Corporation”

A snake slithered around and through the words. I couldn’t see the apple, trying everything to find it: bringing it closer and farther from my eyes; focusing and unfocusing. I wasn’t much good at “Where’s Waldo” either.

My wives all saw it immediately. Eventually Helena traced it. Yep. Apple.

Later, in the theater, Nick sat on stage with Salomé. A large screen above and behind them would show projections of Naomi’s drawings.

“Been awhile,” Nick smiled. “Glad to return to it. Before I begin, or actually Salomé begins, I have a couple things to say. First, Betty has a mock-up of the first book.” An excited murmur passed through the crowd. “I know those who edited it want to see it. But let others see it first. After all, you’ve seen it already, even if it happened to be a virtual version. And, of course, please wait until the end of this evening’s Tale.

“Second, the chairs you sit on are unusual. They are kind of like a car seat. They recline. So if anyone is sitting in the seats behind anyone else, you should probably move or get crushed. You were given sheets to cover your seats. Please make sure they are covered. It’s hard to tell, but they have been plasticized so that any leakage will not affect the seats. Understood?”

More murmurs, accompanied by movements, as people shifted seats. Both Lindy and Angelique kissed me before moving back a row. My wives surrounded me in the front row.

“Hi,” Salomé smiled. “You remember my interest, even fascination, with things developing in the Middle East, specifically involving the Jews. Their quiet rebellion against their Roman overseers took on intellectual, not surprising amongst a most intelligent people, and spiritual changes. The latter especially intrigued me. The way their religious beliefs began shifting. Charismatic figures led these shifts. Controversial to be sure, given that Hebrew laws and ceremonies gleaned from sacred texts had already existed for centuries and become well set. Most feared unsettling the status quo. However condescending they might be, the overseers did allow their religion. And the more conservative Jews bristled at these changes. It resembled in some ways the generation gap of the 1960s, with these charismatic figures being something like rock stars for the youth.

“I felt torn away from it when Nick needed me in Siam to protect my newest angel sister, and to deal with Simon’s invasion from the west. And again when we dealt with the tragedy of Cleopatra. By the time I happily returned that second time, things had gotten even more fascinating.”

“Jesus,” I interrupted.

“Yes. I heard of a modest man speaking profound words with an eloquence that seemed to touch the soul.”

“This is the time of your most infamous namesake,” Lindy inquired.

“The seductive dancer,” Salomé sighed. “In some ways appropriate. Me being this exotic temptress, a sort of escort of those times, expensive for those who could afford it, and free for those who couldn’t, I may have threatened some of the more pious followers, promoting the demonization of my namesake. Two disturbingly sensuous creatures tied together.

“But my name wasn’t altogether unusual amongst the Jews. It means Peace after all.”

“Shalom,” I nodded.

“Exactly. An ironic name to say the least for a warrior.”

“I disagree,” I said.

“Why?”

“Because of your true nature. You are at peace with yourself as much as anyone I know, save for Xo perhaps. And you take no pleasure in using your great skills to kill. You do so only to defend your loved ones, or to destroy those who do harm to their own people, or promote evil.”

“As I or Nick sees it.”

“How else can such things be determined? We are, by nature, self-righteous. But I believe you have the wisdom to make decisions using proper judgement. I know, if I were to be a warrior, I would never doubt your orders.”

“But you don’t need to be,” Salomé smirked. “You have a harem to protect you.”

“Not a harem,” I objected.

Salomé laughed, as did my angel wives. “Of course not,” she said. “You’re just an exhausted stud horse with four needy mares.”

“Exactly,” I smiled.

“A whole stable of mares actually,” Shira added.

“Thus the exhaustion,” Salomé nodded to her most recent lover.

After laughter, she recommenced her Tale.

“What luck,” Pontius murmurs, his thick, over-indulged middle-aged body lying naked on the decadent bed of the decadent room of the decadent, exclusive whore house in Jerusalem. His cock, a respectable length and thickness, stroked by his hand, continuing its state of erection from when he first sees Salomé stroll through a curtain into the main orgy room and commence her exquisitely seductive strip tease.

Salomé smiles, not really concealing her thought, “Not luck.” She murmurs a questioning “Hmm?”

“That I was there for your return.”

“A pleasant surprise for me as well,” she replies in her most seductive voice. “Let’s give this poor cock some release,” she purrs, straddling his head and lowering her pussy onto his mouth. Just like the rest of her clients, she has teased him into cunnilingus. And once tasted, they all become eager for it, and get taught how to do it best. Her mouth engulfs his cock and sends it deep into her throat.

“Gods I missed you,” he moans between pussy licks.

Most times she teases her johns, waiting to let them cum only after they make her cum. But times like these, when a cock needs its first orgasm to last longer inside her, she makes quick work of it. Only after she swallows his built up, bitter seed, does she commence the game, careful at first not to overdo caresses until his sensitivity wanes. But her older clientele finds resurrection much quicker than expected, what with her expert mouth and the potency of her pussy juices. Another reason they find her irresistible. Old goats feel younger than ever, that aspect of manly vigor momentarily restored.

By the time of her success, bringing his cock to rigid hardness again, they both get rewarded by the gush of girl cum, as delicious as any nectar, and an aphrodisiac on top of that, which Pontius welcomes into his mouth and down his throat.

She shifts around, straddling his waist, and leads his cock to her still throbbing center. “Yes,” she murmurs, loving the feeling of being filled once again, the lingering rush of her orgasm making it even better, sustaining it several seconds.

“Gods,” Pontius moans again, feeling the thrum of her interior add further caresses to the friction of fucking. “How can a whore feel so tight?”

“Exercise,” she grins, quickening her fuck which not only sustains the orgasm, but increases it to exquisite ecstasy. Once reached, she stops, his cock deeply embedded.

“Gods,” Pontius moans, reaching for her incredible tits, on the small side but perfectly formed. No longer bouncing, a vision which adds to his excitement, stillness gives him permission to feel the wondrous flesh. With her interior pulsing around his cock, their feel adds to another peak moment of pleasure for him. So many peak moments with her. When she leans forward for him to taste them and lap at the dark, jutting nipples and squeeze them between his lips, it only gets better.

And better when she begins a slow fuck. A long fuck. Bringing him closer to ecstasy. Building the pleasure. And when it comes, when he cums, she cums too, posting vigorously on top of him until she stops and the milking begins. The peak of peaks, nothing has ever felt better. His consciousness barely sustains, but happily does, so that he can experience everything.

“Gods,” he moans after descending from the peak.

She chuckles, which makes him squirm from the additional flutter inside her.

“What?” he asks her.

“Which?”

“Hunh?”

“Which gods?”

“Venus, obviously,” he smiles. “Perhaps the heat of Vulcan’s cauldron, or Saturn’s lair at its hottest. The thunder brought by Jupiter’s bolts? The bolts themselves electrifying me?”

She lies along his side. His flaccid penis wetly releases from its sodden home. Her fingers slide across his sweaty forehead through his thinning hair. “Perhaps we can summon Juno?”

“That conniving bitch?”

She laughs. “Just smarter than her own good, and foolishly jealous of a husband who can never keep it under his toga.”

“I suppose,” he chuckles. “But why her?”

“You seem distracted by thoughts. Worries?”

“How can you tell? Nothing distracts me from you.”

“I spied on you before I appeared and made me all you cared about.”

“Perhaps the choices discouraged me, since you weren’t among them.”

She laughs. “I somehow doubt that. Not only have I been gone a while, but this house happens to contain the most desirable whores in all of the Roman Empire.”

“None as exotic and beautiful as you.”

“Perhaps, but nevertheless they are lovely, sensuous creatures. And I know you have enjoyed more than a few of them. Even the two Jewesses here you claim disgust but enjoy dominating.”

“You know too much,” he objects but with amusement.

“Perhaps I do, but also not enough since I have been absent. Your concerns?”

“Jews are a clever people.”

“Hard to trust?”

“Yes and no. They’re clever enough not to rebel and create their own destruction.”

“Of course. And yet you have concerns.”

“Herod has concerns.”

“Not getting his and your tributes?”

“Not the problem. Or always the problem so nothing different. Status quo, you know? This is different. This is change.”

“Things always change.”

“Maybe. But it has to be controllable.”

“And Herod worries this isn’t? You said the people here haven’t been rebelling.”

“Not against Rome so much.”

“Then Herod worries about his kingship?”

“It’s not political.”

“Then what?”

“Faith.”

“And that worries Herod?”

“Yes. Like I said, he is most in favor of status quo. And that includes his people’s beliefs. The old ways make him comfortable. There are enough Messengers of God already in their faith.”

“So, a new Abraham?”

“Or worse, a new Moses.”

“You know their texts?”

“These people respect intelligence.”

“What do you think of the torah?”

“It’s a history of a people. Not my people.”

“But they think their god is your god.”

“I like diversity in gods,” Pontius shrugs. “It’s more fun and sexier.”

“You should read Solomon’s psalms.”

“Hot?”

“Definitely.”

“Hunh. But these young messengers, whatever they are, sound as if there might emerge a new god.”

“Impossible. Jehovah is not a sharing god. But perhaps they see a sort of god of the people.”

“Yes. Exactly.”

“And that worries Herod?”

“He’s comfortable with one god and one king.”

“Setting your power over him aside.”

“Of course.”

“A messiah then.”

“A messiah?”

“The last great messenger. The coming of end times.”

“End of the world?”

“Yes. But I don’t see Herod concerned about that.”

“Not about prophecy.”

“About competition.”

Pontius nods. “Like I said. Status quo. His political leadership. His acceptable rabbis and the sacred texts steering his people’s faith. Not some prophet exciting things and taking focus and changing things.”

“And what does Herod want to do?”

“That worries me even more.”

Salomé nods seriously and then smiles. “We can’t have that, can we?” and pulls Pontius via his hardened cock over her and between her thighs. She has been quietly and distractedly pulling on it, readying it. She guides it into her slippery, hot core.

“Gods,” Pontius moans.

The next evening, Salomé steers another cock into her cunt. An even older man even more appreciative of her gift of restoration.

“So tight,” the old chief advisor of Herod exclaims appreciatively.

In a nearby chamber, one of her Jewess whores works her magic on Herod. Unlike Pontius, the king prefers only Jews as lovers, and finds exotic women a little unsettling. Salomé’s minion whore has been instructed not to mix politics and pleasure. Too risky for a worried king. Fortunately, her beautiful colleague likes playing dumb and submissive. Her skills at flattery, at stroking a john’s ego, thrill her with their success in exciting him more than her skillful physical caresses.

The lean, tall, if somewhat loose skinned old man prefers Salomé’s exoticism as well as her intelligence. Of course her skills as a lover, the best he has ever had by far, doesn’t hurt.

They have covered the reunion earlier. He missed her. His adoration of her has become magnified by her absence. He considers her his perfect mate. No one has ever stirred his heart like her. She reminds him, gently, that she cannot be his mistress. She is not a woman to be coveted. Not to mention it being ridiculously dangerous to his status. Unsubstantiated rumors getting proved would be ruinous.

Such conversations have been preludes to sex, this one just a bit more intense. Along with kisses and caresses, it helps enable his readiness. Once ready, they fuck. They keep it slow, loving, for a remarkable amount of time. It being his only hard-on for a time, they make the best of it. If she stays, she can get him hard sometime in the middle of the night and in the morning for quicker fucks.

After recovering, with her lying atop him, having finished on top when things get vigorous at the end, more pertinent conversation ensues, at least to her.

“So, how’s work?” she asks him.

“You mean how’s the king?” he chuckles.

“I suppose he is your work.”

“Pretty much. All I do is bring him the temperament of the people and advise him accordingly.”

“And how much does he take your advice?”

“He has his own mind, but he listens.”

“He looks a bit worried these days.”

“What king isn’t worried? All he can hope for is stability, both outside and within. For Herod it is the stability of the Empire and the fragility of his acceptance.”

“By Rome?”

“And by his people.”

“Rome must remain intact?”

“Yes, unfortunately. Being inside its borders means peace. Even if it’s an enforced peace. But also it needs to be stable in its demands of us.”

“It can’t get greedier.”

“Exactly. In a way it’s a balancing act between the appeasement of Rome and of Herod’s people, with Herod the central scale.”

“Poor Herod. Such weight at the center.”

“You are being ironic. Because of the king’s wealth.”

“You’re not doing too badly either.”

“You know this is the way of kings. Always. The greater the wealth, the greater the power. A meager throne is a weak throne. It represents the wealth of the kingdom. A king is as wealthy as his people, especially a peaceful king who does not strive to expand his kingdom and steal his wealth from other kingdoms. And if his job, so to speak, garners the greatest pay, perhaps it’s deserved, because of the grave responsibility involved.”

“Including keeping his people passive.”

“Quelling rebellions shows another kind of royal power.”

“I suppose it does,” Salomé says. “But carefully done.”

“Martyrs,” the advisor agrees. “Our most debated subject.”

“The surfeit of messengers of God. You have careful watch on them.”

“I have my eyes.”

“Informants?” She can see his amusement. “Spies? What worries Herod? These people all seem to have messages of peace. Or is it the strongest of his people who voice their concern? The wealthiest? Or the leading rabbis?”

“We listen to their concerns. But Herod has his own. These supposed prophets breed zealots.”

“Religious zealots.”

“Exactly.”

“And Herod is a secular ruler.”

“Of course.”

“And they preach for the purity of poverty and the idolatry and corruption of gold.”

“Corruption,” the advisor agrees.

“A key to rebellion. And of course they’re right.”

“Everyone’s corrupt. It’s a human condition.”

“Even the prophets?”

“I bet they’d admit it. They probably struggle with it more than anyone.”

Salomé holds back her temptation to ask him about this new supposed prophet, the one who seems to exude peacefulness like an aura, whose following, though small, seems inevitable to grow. Confident in his words that seem to touch the very soul of those who listen, yet humble in presence. A person of the people saying great things. This Jesus of Nazareth. If the old man knows nothing of him, it’s best to keep it that way.

“Probably,” she says, and wonders if Jesus struggles.

Another bed and another informant, this one much less ambitious, let alone rich, even if, what little he has compared to those earlier lovers, makes him struggle with his soul.

She has been careful about this freebee fuck. She suspects spies, and the old advisor has confirmed it, if not in his own words. Her suspicion arises from any gathering getting too large, listening to one of these supposed messengers of God, becoming riots. A poisonous word here, a bully’s shove there, and the crowd dissolves in a melee of violence and arrests, with the prophet either shouting for peace and risking arrest, or running away, the cowardly way the smarter way.

“I am so weak,” he sniffles, after demonstrating he is anything but, at least as far as sex. After sucking him off and letting him get hard again while sucking her to a nice cum, he fucks her relentlessly. Remarkable stamina, his thrusts build in speed and intensity becoming hard and fast for minutes, fucking through one orgasm of hers after another, until a shaking one slows him and he rebuilds the speed. Throughout, his mouth and hand caress her nipples perfectly, applying greater pressure when she needs it. Fingers of his other hand reveal more empathy to her needs, stroking her clit, most carefully after each of her several climaxes. Her hands clutch his strong ass, needing less steering than usual. At the next peak of pleasure, she triggers his release with a finger in his anus rubbing his prostrate. The intensity of the result has him pass out. The smaller of the two of them, not uncommon with Salomé’s elegant height, though well-muscled, his weight causes no discomfort to the angel when he continues lying atop her.

His plaintive statement almost makes her laugh because of the amazing fuck, but she understands his seriousness. “I am hard to resist,” she tells him.

“You certainly are. But it only took eye contact and a smile to make it happen. Just as it has so many times before, even if the woman delays things more than you.”

“You win them in the end, I can tell.”

“Only if they are truly willing. I learned early to be certain. The harm it did in my blind youth tortured my soul. I guess I am trying to make up for my callousness by giving them the greater pleasure.”

“And you as well.”

“True. Nothing pleases me more than screams of pleasure and a shuddering body. And to taste her pleasure with my tongue, sweet ambrosia. But I have to ask, even if its very nature makes it unlikely to respond truthfully, are you a demon?”

“Like the one Jesus pulled from that woman Mary?”

“Yes.”

“I have no interest in your soul.”

“It does feel intact, despite being at its weakest a moment ago.”

“If anything, I’m an angel.”

“Then this would be a test, for which I failed.”

“I disagree. You passed magnificently. Your empathy amazes me, enough for me to wish this to continue, and for me to nurture it, and, truth be told, to make use of it.”

“I have a wife and two lovely daughters.”

“Your wife knows of your so called weakness?”

“She does. She’s seen it from the beginning. I promised to curtail it, but she knew my weakness. In fact she has it as well.”

“She must be powerfully sexed to be your mate. So, does she find men when you are off travelling?”

“Not men, no,” he tells her.

“Interesting. And have you shared with her?”

“You don’t balk at her sinfulness?”

“I have a different view of sin than your people. When it comes to sex, I am always forgiving, except when taken without consent. Brutality, whether rape or other violence, selfishness, and disdainful pride are high up in my list of sins. But sex? Especially as wondrous as what we just shared? I only see good in that. The pleasure and the intimacy. But, have you shared her bed with one of her conquests?”

“Never, except in the telling.”

“Stories of others excite her?”

“Yes.”

“So, you’re imaginative too. What fun!”

“You wish us to continue. That means I have a purpose.”

“Me being an angel,” she giggles.

“A most surprising angel.”

“To be sure. And yes, I wish to nurture your gift and to exploit it.”

“How?”

“You use it to choose and please women?”

“And for trading. I can always catch the cheat.”

“Speaking of which, I wish you to quit your trade.”

“My family lives modestly, but I still need to bring food to the table.”

“That will never be a problem. I am quite wealthy.”

“Then I am to be your whore?”

“Careful.”

“Why?”

“How do you think I make my money?”

“A most sinful business.”

“So your faith says. But it’s a hypocritical belief. And not just for the johns who feel just as you feel and yet indulge. And what of the women who choose to survive rather than die of starvation? So few things a woman can do if she has no man.”

“And once she makes that choice, it makes it harder to find a man.”