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Onan had been meant for the Church since birth — the requisite sacrificial fourth son — and it hadn't ever occurred to him to protest. If he had realised it would end with him tied to a literal sacrificial altar, at the mercy of a pack of men known to belong to a Hellfire Club, he might have demurred or begged for a commission.
But again, he reflected, swallowing against the sharp prick of the knife at this throat, perhaps it would have all been much of a muchness and he was always destined to end up here, bound by wrists and ankles to cold stone and with the collar of his office torn off and replaced by a heavy iron band with a dangling chain that had the links driven into an anchor point as firmly as though this wizard had no intention of any would-be king pulling them free.
The man with the knife at his throat — Sir Philip Rookwood, he thought, though it was difficult to tell under the blackly hooded robes — said to no one in particular, 'It is remarkable how fast his pulse is, isn't it? I wonder if we should have had David here, just in case. If I so much as nick him he's going to bleed like a stuck pig.'
Onan moaned, high in his throat so as not to press it any closer to that dangerously glinting tip.
'You say this as though it's a bad thing,' another of them drawled, cut-class vowels and a broader silhouette marking him as Raven, the seditious artist, 'Isn't that what we mean to do with him, after all?'
'All in good time,' Rookwood said, amusement clear in his tone. 'V wants to play first — you know how he is.'
'I'm not certain —' another voice spoke up; younger, uneasy. Guy Frisby. Because his humiliation had lacked only the brother of his erstwhile wife being present for it.
The knife vanished from his throat, Rookwood abandoning his torture instantly to soothe and reassure his lover. 'Hush, hush, all is well, dear one — look, see how he tents his cassock. Look at his mouth — we none of us told him to open it, and yet he has, and kept it so, as though he hopes for a anything we might give him — be it pricks or providence, semen or salvation, come or holy communion.'
Onan writhed, because he could not deny it, could not deny that he had moaned when Lord Corvin's hand had brushed over his mouth as they tied him down, that he had nearly wept when it was taken away and he had done no more than touch it with his lips.
The man was between his tied-open legs now, in fact, eyeing the bared sliver of skin between the top of his garters and his drawers with the kind of loving attention Onan had been used to seeing on the faces of parishioners when they realised there were only five minutes left in his sermon. He had a sort of a mallet thing in one hand, a brutish bit of metal with what looked like spikes through it. Corvin must have sensed his gaze, because he met Onan's eyes and grinned, flexing the fingers — all six of them — around the handle as he hoisted it. 'Do you know what this is?'
Onan shook his head, or as much as he could manage in his bonds, and Corvin laughed, exactly as an evil Viscount in a Gothick Tale would laugh, low and chilling, and rested it lightly against Onan's thigh. 'This, my poor little virgin, is a meat tenderiser.'
'Look at the infant,' Raven said, placing a hand on Onan's shoulder and leaning, 'This leaves him no more illuminated than if you'd spoken Arabic, V. He's never so much as set foot in a kitchen.'
If he'd been allowed to speak, Onan could have said that he had, of course he had, many times — did they think the life of an chaplain without a living was the same as that of a curate? — but with Raven's hand so close to his mouth, he could only strain to get his tongue on them despite the pressure of the man's nearly full weight on his shoulder.
'A practical demonstration then. Philip, borrow your knife?'
Sir Philip put his knife into the hand of his young lover and pushed him gently towards Lord Corvin. Guy Frisby was blushing and unable to meet anyone's eyes, least of all Onan's, but the bulge under his robe was — Onan whined, imagining that down his throat, forcing him to silence and stillness for whatever was coming next.
'Very good,' Corvin praised, gentle as they all seemed to be with Frisby, 'His clothes seem quite unnecessary at this stage, wouldn't you say? Particularly for the purposes of my demonstration.'
'Yes, V.' Frisby said, and if he didn't see the delight and fond looks exchanged between Rookwood and Raven, Onan certainly did, and the contrast to the careless disregard of the hands that had bound him had him choking down a completely absurd sob.
'Hold him here,' Corvin murmured, guiding and pressing Frisby's hands to hold the skin of Onan's thigh taut. 'I'm going to cut the rest off and then we can get back to choice cuts of meat.' He met Onan's eyes and winked, even as the knife trailed a desultory path from his thigh up to his stomach. The cassock buttoned - they could have undone them, or even pulled it off him before they had fastened him to the altar, but of course they preferred this route, knife tip digging in until he was sure it would draw blood before the rip of cloth meant it moved again. He watched, unsure what to feel, as his sober robe of office was cut from his body and dropped in careless rags on the ground, followed by his dingy drawers. He expected his garters and socks to be removed next, but Corvin left those, trailing a hand over one of them in a possessively caressing way Onan could not understand. There was nothing in the least arousing or exciting about them; it was not as if he went about cross-garter'd and in yellow stockings, but Corvin had spent a good ten minutes doing nothing but rubbing his fingers and even his face against them and the reddened bits of his leg where he had tied it too tightly.
'Tenderizing meat with the mallet softens the fibres, making the meat easier to chew and to digest,' Corvin explained to Frisby, for all the world as though he were a French cook in a fine house, taking the mallet up again and hovering those dreadful spikes as though he meant to land a blow with them, 'But since we have such a lovely tender little lamb here, we won't need to do much.'
'"If his offering be a burnt sacrifice of the herd, let him offer a male without blemish: he shall offer it of his own voluntary will at the door of the tabernacle of the congregation before the LORD,"' Frisby murmured, and then met Onan's astonished gaze and blushed again.
'Not just Catullus, eh, Guy?' Raven said, laughing. He straightened from where he was leaning, and Onan gasped with the relief of the pressure, and then again when a ruthless hand in his hair pulled his head back, exposing his throat again for — oh God — another knife. This one was short, and dark, glinting oddly in the moonlight, as though it was made of stone or obsidian instead of iron. He played it down one side of Onan's jaw and up the other, leaving him dry-mouthed as his brain filled in the quotation, "And he shall kill the bullock before the LORD: and the priests, Aaron's sons, shall bring the blood, and sprinkle the blood round about upon the altar that is by the door of the tabernacle of the congregation. And he shall flay the burnt offering, and cut it into his pieces."
Part of him wanted to beg, but he knew that was not his role — had not Our Lord accepted the cup handed to him, and drank of it to the dregs? — and at the moment the thing he would have begged for most was Raven's cock down his throat. He wetted his parted lips with his tongue and hoped it would be enough to entice.
Meanwhile Rookwood had joined Frisby and Corvin, peering at the placement of their markings with interest. 'Surely the breast would be more tender,' he said interrogatively, 'if we mean to take the priestly portion before we make the sacrifice proper.'
Corvin grunted, an oddly inelegant sound, but he was busy with paint and a brush that must have been borrowed from Raven's supplies, writing — Onan craned his neck painfully — thighs, on the corresponding parts, much as a butcher would diagram a cow for slaughter. The paint was cold, and the brush ticklish, and neither did anything to discourage his prick from slapping hard and humiliatingly against his stomach now there was no robe nor drawers to hold it down.
There was a laugh from Frisby, and though it held no malice, Onan could feel himself going even more red than he had been during that disastrous interview with Lady Paul and Miss Frisby (now Mrs. Martelo). He knew full well he was undersized in this as in many other respects, and particularly in this company, where average seemed to be a skewed metric. Perhaps they would cut it off, make him like the Ethiopian whom Philip converted, as a punishment for — his imagination failed here, given he had never dared to imagine ever playing the role of Jonathan with anyone he didn't pay for the privilege.
Frisby astonished him thoroughly, then, by discarding the mystic priestly robe, and revealing that underneath it he both wore nothing at all and that his prick was likewise bobbing against his stomach, although there was considerably more to bob. He climbed astride Onan on the altar, sliding down onto his shaft with calumniatory ease. They both moaned, Frisby probably more because of Raven leaning forward over him to lick into his mouth, but Onan was attempting not to shame himself by spilling his seed before the man had so much as moved.
He was aided in this by something cold and hard being placed on his right thigh - the meat tenderiser. There was a beat, and then something heavy struck it, driving a dozen sharp spikes into his flesh abruptly and without mercy, as though he were exactly what they had suggested — nothing but a sack of meat and bones to be butchered and rendered into fat and oils. Before he could catch his breath enough to shout, the thing was moved to his left thigh and the process repeated. This time, as if in reward for holding his tongue, Raven's face, upside down over his own and mouth wet with kisses, let his bottom lip fall open and a long line of spit edged off of it and dropped unerringly into Onan's open mouth.
He came, cock kicking and spurting into Frisby's clenching hole, which refused to release him despite his wilting stand. Their respective positions meant he could do nothing about this, and indeed Frisby's relentless milking of his cock meant that in less time than he could have dreamed possible it was stiff again, prodding Frisby's hole (little though he seemed to notice it, sitting at his ease and exchanging slow, loving kisses with Rookwood now).
'Are you ready, V?' Raven said, deep voice startling Onan out of whatever strange fugue state he had ascended to after receiving the man's spit. His thighs were burning, and the altar was rough against his back, and he wanted to go back to drifting.
'Ready if you and Phil are,' Viscount Corvin confirmed, and he stood and pulled off his own robe, revealing himself as likewise bare and prick already at a stand.
'I am,' Raven confirmed, and though he declined to strip off completely, he pulled the robe up and his trousers down, and oh, God, he was thick. With the best will and motivation in the world, Onan doubted his ability to even fit the thing in his mouth at all. Raven saw his horror and smiled. 'Don't worry, little sacrifice. Spit, not birdspit, is all you'll get from me today.'
Despite his terror, Onan felt a pang of disappointment and anger at himself for yet another failure. But he had been charged strictly not to speak on pain of — well, pain, and pleading would be useless if the man had made up his mind already. He could only accept what he was given, and watch as Raven joined Corvin at the end of the altar, pushing Corvin to bend forward over it and hilting himself in the man's arse with an ease that left him gaping. How many times must the man have taken that cock to be able to slide in so readily, so swiftly, without so much as a gasp of pain or a cry to wait, please wait. Indeed, Corvin shuddered from head to foot and his cock jumped noticably, clear fluid leaking from the tip to mat the nest of curls about his prick. Raven slapped his thigh, and Corvin moaned, doing something with his arse that made Raven gasp before he slapped Corvin's arse, hard. 'Get on,' he gritted out. 'We've a job to do still.'
'Yes John,' Corvin managed, and stood, angling his prick to — Onan had never done this, never so much as put a curious finger up there, and while Corvin was not, thank God, of the same proportions as Raven or Frisby, he was certainly larger than a finger, and the oil still leaking out of him in occasional gushes seemed inadequate. He was distracted again from the prodding at his fundament by a prodding at his mouth. Rookwood, without so much as disentangling his mouth from his young lover's, with his robe discarded but otherwise fully clothed, sliding two fingers onto his tongue and rubbing hard circles there, as though he meant to work out a knot in muscle.
'Breathe,' Raven said to Onan, not unkindly, and then he fucked forward. Corvin was merely the tool, Onan realised, as his mouth opened wide in a scream Rookwood aborted by dint of closing his hand firmly over his lips; Raven was the one fucking him, forcing Corvin's hips to the pace he preferred, and using Corvin's cock as a proxy for the one Onan could not yet take. Onan began to cry, knowing it would make it harder to breathe and not caring. The tender hole of his arse, the heartbeat he could feel in his bruised thighs and at the base of his cock as he tried not to come twice in as many minutes, the absentminded way Rookwood played with his lips and tongue and teeth as though they were mere casual asides not so important as the business of kissing another man — all these things made him feel raw and scraped thin, as though the altar were a rack and he had been on it for days.
He was about to break his promise of silence and beg, plead for something he could not name, when the fingers pulled out of his mouth and Rookwood — Thank God, thank all the gods — slid in. It was what he hadn't known he wanted. The kick and pulse of Corvin's cock in his back channel, and Rookwood filling his mouth with a sour, musky taste his mind catalogued as one that had recently spent, and not been washed since. He hummed around it, realising this would mean no rush on Rookwood's side to spill again, and allowed his eyes to close and throat to open. The angle was awkward; it was more difficult from this way up to keep his lips properly wrapped around his teeth, but Rookwood was making no complaints nor demands; his fingers were rubbing and teasing at Frisby's chest, rubbing through the sparse hair there and making pleased noises into his mouth. Frisby was riding now, hole clenching like a vise grip on Onan's cock, and God but the man must have incredibly powerful thighs, because he was lifting himself up and lowering again with a rapidity that astonished Onan. He was grateful for the prick in his mouth, giving him a purpose, because he feared that without it he would have simply stared at the sight of Frisby's frankly absurdly large prick as it smacked occasionally against his stomach and sometimes even against Onan's.
He tried to imitage what Frisby was doing with his arse, clenching and releasing in time with Corvin's thrusts, and maintain that same rhythm again with Rookwood's cock. It was hard work, and part of him was relieved when there was a highly sacrilegious oath and four or five spurts of something hot striped his chest and Frisby sagged against him, hole still working absently, and making hurt little whimpers into Rookwood's mouth that made his cock kick in Onan's throat.
'Are you going to come in him?' Came Raven's voice again, low and purring, 'Fill our pretty sacrifice with a good spurt of fish roe?'
'Enhance - the - flavour,' Corvin gasped, looking a trifle wild about the eyes, 'Cut him open afterwards — split from neck to navel, feed on him for weeks.'
Rookwood pulled away from Frisby's mouth long enough to chuckle. 'He won't keep that long, dearheart. Not unless you plan to smoke him. 'Jerky' him, as our friends across the pond say.'
Frisby looked faintly disgusted, but made no objection to Rookwood reaching down and running his fingers through the load he had just spilt, rubbing it into Onan's skin as though he really were a chicken he planned to roast and wanted to season it first. 'No, I think we would do much better to use him up right away. Tender young meat is always preferable, to my mind.' He picked up his knife again, this time balancing the tip just in Onan's navel and laughing when his belly retracted in instinctive fear. 'Come, John, surely it's time to stop playing with your food?' He pulled his cock from Onan's mouth, and helped Frisby off the altar.
Onan knew he did not deserve the man's seed, but he could not help but feel a little bereft, watching as Rookwood's prick slipped easily into Frisby's arse and the two of them simply stood in that fashion, mouths finding each other every few seconds. His prick was cold, he realised, outside of the coalfire of Frisby's channel, and had wilted a trifle.
'You fuck your way,' Raven said, through gritted teeth and the firm grip he had on Corvin's locks, 'And I'll fuck mine. V, fill him.'
There was another loud smack, a yelp, and Corvin had obeyed, hips stuttering a gasping rhythm as hot spurts of seed filled Onan's arse. A grunt and seven or eight thrusts later, and Raven dropped his head to rest between Corvin's shoulders, gasping for breath as though he had just run a furlong.
A long moment, where there was no sound but ragged breathing and a small whimper from Frisby as Rookwood adjusted them, and then Raven must have made some signal, because Corvin pulled out, leaving Onan feeling sloppy, used, and unpleasantly hollowed out. He pulled on his bonds, for the first time since he had first tested them, and wondered what he was meant to do now — perhaps they really would decide he had been more trouble than he was worth, or all along the pleasant facade had been simply that, and Rookwood would take that obscenely sharp knife of his and —
'Easy,' a voice said, and Corvin was smiling at him, one hand on his prick with a casually proprietary air Onan ought not have found quite so attractive. 'I promised you, did I not, that we would take care of you. My sweet sacrifice. Hold fast a little while longer, and we'll have you out of those chains.' He dropped a hand to caress just over the paint that proclaimed him as 'Top quality English beef', and a glinting smile showed in his eyes. 'One way…or another.'