Tremble: Erotic Tales of the Mystical and Sinister

Lady Whistle moved forward, her dress swishing against the floor.

“This was my bedroom as a girl.” She smiled at Alistair’s perplexed expression. “I was Lord Whistle’s ward before he married me. He is a good twenty years older than I and prefers the company of men to women.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Do not be; it is a perfectly amiable arrangement. We share trust, companionship, and, most importantly, freedom.”

She sat on the bed beside him and ran her hand along the counterpane. “To think that I slept here too, in this bed, when I was as innocent and as pure as you,” she said, smiling again.

Nothing deflates the ego more than a patronizing woman, Alistair thought, his confidence collapsing like a tower of stacked playing cards. As if she could read his thoughts, Lady Whistle lifted his hand and placed it in her lap. Despite his anxiety the archaeologist hardened instantly.

“Trust me, there is nothing more alluring to a libertine than innocence. Now come, I wish to show you my temple. It will be a tantalizing prelude to the fully orchestrated work tomorrow.”

She led him by the hand down a plain back staircase, obviously used exclusively by the servants. It ran through the mansion like the hidden backbone of some huge animal, the rest of its body—the rooms—pulsating with invisible intrigue behind the wood paneling.

Lady Whistle held a candlestick high above her head as they passed landing after landing, each with a barely noticeable door set into the wall. They had descended five flights when the stairwell opened out into the dark cavern of an underground cellar.

“Wait here,” she murmured, plunging him into darkness as she disappeared behind a door with the candle. A second later she pulled him into the chamber.

He stood there shivering slightly, the scent of wine hanging heavy in the air. Suddenly the room was illuminated as Lady Whistle lit a candelabra. A vaulted ceiling suggested it might once have been a crypt long ago, the remnants of an earlier building. Now it was clearly used as a cellar: one half was filled with wine racks holding row upon row of dusty bottles.

“As you will appreciate, I had to construct the temple far away from prying eyes,” she laughed. “Come.”

She pointed toward a door on the far side of the chamber. Alistair followed her across the stone floor. The door was ornately decorated with copperplate and embossed with a series of hieroglyphs that Alistair recognized as Sanskrit and some Latin.

“Within lies the temple of Dionysus. May all who enter feel joy in their souls and bodies,” he translated. “But why the Sanskrit?”

“The Pompeiians were also worshippers of the goddess Isis. Such writings were found in the Villa of Mysteries—of which this room is an exact duplicate.”

She pulled out a key, its handle phallus-shaped, and unlocked the door.

It swung open to reveal a large chamber that was octagonal in shape. Lady Whistle lit eight torches, one in the center of each wall. Their wicks were encased in bronze statues of stunning nude youths with erect penises—Alistair instantly recognized them as duplicates of the ithyphallic figure he had documented for the catalogue.

The floor was a tiled mosaic showing the bearded figure of Dionysus. On his head sat a wreath of snakes intertwined around vines and he stood upon a bull and a lion, one foot planted firmly on each beast’s back.

“He is standing over the planetary formation for the spring equinox.” Lady Whistle lowered her voice in reverence, as if she were standing at a sacred altar.

In the center of the room were twelve stands, each holding a yellow robe and a gilded mask. Some had goat horns, some had bull horns—Alistair imagined the masks would cover half of the wearer’s face.

“These are the masks all the worshippers will be wearing, except for the thirteenth participant—you.”

“I will be unmasked? What about my reputation, my anonymity?”

“Trust me, Alistair, after this you will be part of a secret but powerful sect; one that will facilitate great opportunity, I promise.”

Uncertain, the archaeologist studied the painted walls. If it were not for their contemporary dress, he might have been transported entirely back to first-century Pompeii. The satyrs—half-goat, half-man—seemed to leer at him as they thrust into an abundance of succulent flesh. It was an amazing sight: the mural he had been staring at for all those months on the scroll, now recreated with astonishing accuracy in this chamber—all except one wall, which was mysteriously blank.

“Why is that panel empty?”

“It represents the unknown future; a depiction of the philosophy that although our actions might influence our destiny, nothing is ever truly fixed.”

“You have the correct configuration of worshippers?” he asked, his voice now throaty with desire.

“Seven men and six women. We will begin and you will watch. You will only be drawn into the formation for the fourth stanza—the climax is clearly marked upon the floor; my people know exactly the position to take. Eros shall flow in a slow, controlled ecstasy. And I promise, it will be ecstasy.”

She took his arm and walked him to the fourth panel. He stared at the mural. The priest lay in the center of the orgy mounted by a goat woman, her breasts thrust forward, her head thrown back in bliss, as she was simultaneously taken by a bacchant from behind.

“This will be you tomorrow,” Lady Whistle whispered, pointing to the priest. She placed her hand firmly on Alistair’s tumescent organ bulging under his breeches. “Until then you must save yourself.”