novelraw Chapter 370: Ever Had Your Palm Read?
Chapter 370: Ever Had Your Palm Read?
Her perfume hit him hard in the face, a spray of unseemly fragrance, so he did not know if he smelled the hill or the woman.
Ack—
Eotigan had so many questions. First, like, ’what the fuck?’
El Cabana was a weird one. He’d thought he was done with the nudist culture and cult shite already. And now this? Was the Heaving Hut really named after the acts committed within it? A masturbating girl? What? Eotigan rubbed his eyes.
The girl was still there: on the albatross rug.
He knew now it was her he smelled, for sure. Her scent was everything from comely to pure crazy. When the first winds of her fragrance had entered his nose, he’d thought of walking through summer fields. But now he had settled into her smell, she was far more sinful in his mind. Looking down at her, all his questions evaporated one by one.
Eotigan did not notice her face at all for the first ten seconds.
It was her body.
She was soft bronze, magnificient, all honey, smooth, heaped flesh on curves, skin like you could never dream; a forest jewel.
Her body hypnotized him. He had caught her in the most naughty act. With her legs open, and almost far up enough to touch her belly, he saw the polished beauty of her. Her tattoos were gold, literally, but he wasn’t focused on that. His yellow iris were on that sacred place of hers—the slow breathy motions of her fingers tunneling damp heat, drawing forth pleasure, a sharp tang and quiet sounds in the hut.
...her heaving.
She didn’t stop when his iridescent stare finally strolled up from her curvaceous body to meet with her own hazel eyes. Her fingers pumped faster. She curled them in, giving one last forceful buck before gently dropping her legs and closing them. But not before Eotigan saved to his mental memory the sight of her wet, clenching pussy and swell of curly dark pubes. He wasn’t sorry about this either. She hadn’t stopped when he’d come in.
The girl rose up the floors, closing her robes as she stood. It was then he registered that this was Calypso, the nude model from the fire festival.
He had just one question now: how the Hel was she in this jungle, and not sleeping off a night of spit-roasting?
She had been the main attraction of last night’s Bohemian fest, so he was definitely sure she had gotten propositions.
Eotigan blinked. She was by a standing bowl in the rear of the hut, rinsing off her hands. She dried off her fingers and as she walked back towards him, Eotigan used the time to appraise the hut. The place had sparse furnishings, but the modest rug and veils and paintings it had all looked created in the Age of Dreams. Not something you’d find in a hut drop-center of a forest, on a surprisingly wealthy island in the middle of the ocean.
"You’re quite the devil, watching a girl rub one out?"
Eotigan came to. The girl had spoken to him. Contrary to her form, she had a big voice. Not deep. Big.
He watched her bend over and pull in a tiny, ornate table to the space over the fine carpet. She tightened her robes more and sat on the stool opposite his end of the table. A silence reigned where she just did to him what he had done to her some seconds ago.
Eotigan sat. There was no other chair in sight so he sat on the visible floor, cross-legged like the samurai of the Jun Prefecture had taught him.
"How do you figure I’m a devil?"
The girl smiled. "It was a guess. But defensive now, are we?"
Eotigan looked away, frowning, "I’m not the shaman who was caught finger-blasting herself, in a hut weirdly named after her sex noises, mind you."
She on the other hand looked straight at him—a long time. She smiled again, benevolently—and if you’d just met her you wouldn’t think she had a lustful bone in her body. "That’s not why the Hut is named that. You’ll see, soon enough. But I’m guessing you don’t like therapy."
"This isn’t therapy," Eotigan growled, "it’s supposed to be a relaxing...encounter?" He fumbled. This girl, however insanely natural was a fraction of his immortal years, yet she was drawing out more emotions from him than he’d given to his evil cunt of a god-mother in all the centuries in Hel. Lilith would’ve flayed her own face if it’d have made him say he LIKED her one time.
"You just watched me in my most intimate moment. Isn’t that relaxing enough for you?" The girl’s lips turned wryly in dry humor.
"You think?" Eotigan engaged her.
She caught the growing enthusiasm in his eyes and blew through her lips, giving him a singular look that said I’m not doing this with you. She leaned over the short table, "well then, devil, what’s your name?"
Eotigan decided to tell her because he had at least met a female who didn’t give a shit about the politically correct term for his race—Hellions. "E...Otigan," she recited. And he corrected her. "It’s called out Etigan. There is a silent O." She joked that she had found a mannered devil. Eotigan did not correct her again on this, that Hel’s aristocracy was quite learned. Like, his great uncle, the Morningstar could speak all earthly languages known to man. And the god of knowledge was a four-horned devil, so go figure.
Rather than telling all this to the girl, he simply asked, "Calypso, I’m sure?"
The girl for the first time dropped her velvet eyes. "No, actually. I was born Najwa. But after being chosen as the avatar of the sea mother, after my first worship, everybody in the village just began calling me Calypso."
She showed him her arms and the ink of winding gold. Her tattoos had glowed during her naked walk last night, Eotigan remembered. The moment turned profound and Najwa broke the silence with, "I thought you’d have a more regal name. All devils do."
Eotigan didn’t wince. "I don’t."
In truth, he did. Like Najwa, he too had been gifted a name for what he had become. He, was born Israfel Bludthirste, godson of the Principalities. He wasn’t going to tell some island witch this.
"So are we going to sit here and trade stories, or do I have to wank in front of you too?"
Najwa easily wrote his comment off, seeing he was trying his best to avoid staring into her supple cleavage. Even the rings of her pupils were gilded, Eotigan noticed as she opened her hands to him. She placed them on the ornate flat.
"Ever had your palm read, devil?"
Eotigan blinked several times. "What..." He was not expecting her to ask that.
Najwa continued softly, "I’m guessing the girls you came in with last night are at the saunas. And you, are here. Let’s get you something equally as nice from this, shall we? Give me your hands, Hornhead."
"Really, you’re gonna be racist?" The shadow of a smile played across Eotigan’s mouth. This creepy, perky shaman was full of surprises. He placed his right hand in hers, replying, "the answer’s no, shaman. But go ahead, read away."
Eotigan expected bowls, crystals, cowries...something. But all she did was gingerly collect his hand, turn him over so his palm was face-up, and she studied like a scribe. Barely a second passed before she said, "an inverted cross? You’re a devil, alright." The seconds began ticking with her looking intensely at the sole upturned T that was the line of his both palms, and Eotigan passed the time by counting the beating of her heart; a sound which was as to him a pounding jamboree under a waterfall.
He was two seconds away from concluding she was another fake—possibly D-Rank—[Mystic] when she spoke—without looking up at him:
"Who is Little Raven?"
Eotigan stopped counting. Now it was his own demonic heart going crazy.
"...is that your pet, or something?" Najwa had not raised her eyes still. "Or is it a person. A gir—"
Eotigan withdrew his hand so fast Najwa nearly flew across the little table into his lap.
"What the hell, devil!" she screeched.
Memories of faces, places—and sex positions flooded Eotigan’s skull. In all of the flashes he was named by his name, Israfel, and not this pitiful naval officer he’d invented. Against it all, he shut his eyes. He shut his eyes on Corazon, on Naamah, on Ravenna, on Brunhilde, on Rosa, and on the hundred others of blue faces. When he opened his eyes, there was in it only an ocean of nothingness. Totally emotionless.
Najwa pulled her empty hands back. "That’s fine. I have seen enough." Her voice and eyes dropped. "Holy gods, how many have you killed?" No answer came from Eotigan. Like she knew patience would yield still no result, Najwa spoke softly on, "for as many as you’ve killed, you have lost twice as much. You might be the most hurt devil I’ve ever met, Etigan—if that’s even your real name."
Najwa kept looking at Eotigan for a sign, a shift, a tear...anything.
Nothing came from him.
He did meet her own gaze finally, after some stifling moments, and in his eyes Najwa saw literally the fires of Hel. Literally. So she knew he wasn’t really asking when he said coldly, "tell me why it’s called the Heaving..."
[To be continued.]