The Beast

You just can't imagine what it's like to lie there in anticipation of the beast, your legs tied apart so wide you're at the edge of pain, waiting and wondering whether today you'll feel his claw or teeth or bone.

Or maybe you can. Maybe you can feel the stone of the altar against your back, hear the near silent flicker of the candles burning, smell the intoxicating mix of incense and a feral musk in the air.

You can certainly imagine that if you can imagine the hunger of the people as famine swept over the land. If you can feel the growl in your stomach that would make you bite almost anything—do almost anything.

Each time, a monk ties the ropes, his hood hiding his face, so most of what I know him by is his hands. Strong hands with deft fingers, a few calluses roughening his palms, as he loops the ropes around my thighs and prepares to bind me tight. The priests say the ropes are for my safety. They say if I move too much, the beast might eat me.

Each time I am given to the beast, this same monk performs these duties. He never speaks. By the light of a single candle, he binds my legs at the thigh and my arms at the wrist. Then he inspects between my legs.

Sometimes a voice comes from up above, from one of the priests watching over the wall of the pit. Matthias! he...