Lupe Sebiestor - Part I

A week into the cruise, and still fresh water erupted from showerheads dousing Rengal Sanq. Knowing the extravagance – the spoiling luxury of it – each evening, the attractively aging Intaki red head vowed to spend no more time than needed among tomorrow’s geysers. Each morning, she washed away restraint. Quafe had spared no expense on the tour, why suffer? The previous night’s inaugural concert went off without hitch and Rengal, staff sergeant to Amarr’s Lady Ghiselle Arghelos, deserved some luxury! Their repurposed Moros “Four Winds” (one of the most secure liners yet built) drifted lazily across the face of New Caldari, its first capitol stop, and Rengal’s shower chamber appeared to float on a translucent disk surrounded by stars and the sparkling factories of that heavy world.

Such magnificent projections only encouraged her to waste more water….

Someone tapped on her shower door. “In space, no one can hear you tap.” It returned – insistently timid. Only one member of their delegation tapped like that. If the others had sent Bunnibal, they expected Rengal to flip out. Bloody hell. She flipped off water, on lights, crossed an absurd distance to the shower’s now visible door – and flung it wide. A lanky Sebiestor stammered apologies. Rengal locked on to him with a long, hard kiss. Bunni became excited. When she stepped away, he tried to hide his embarrassment. But that boy was a monster.

Shortly after Sevat Arghelos completed his “Jade Munnin,” his House sent “Brother” Sauol to every armpit and ass crack in the empire looking for Sebiestor youths resembling the masterpiece. The Arghelos firmly believed function followed form. If a space wight had engineered one awkward Sebiestor into a bipedal slaver, others that looked like him necessarily possessed “qualities.” Sauol now peddled those qualities in his exclusive “Lupe Sebiestor” line of consorts. All the fashionable ladies wanted one. Rengal initially dismissed it as “eccentric marketing,” but beneath off color flesh, lumpy skeleton, lanky limbs and protruding veins, Bunni did possess more than any young man’s fair share of “quality.”

How could such a narrow body move that much blood so quickly?

The creature tried to physically compress his sanguine emotions back into a state of composure. Was he serious? Increasingly, variations on “you’ll never believe what my Lupe did today” prefaced giddy girl talk at exclusive salons from Sarum to Khannid. Rengal felt compelled to watch for several moments before diving into morning bulletins. Nothing outrageous leapt out of the projections, and she wondered if she misinterpreted Bunni’s presence. The squirming beast approached. That spring would stay sprung all morning, Rengal knew, and she felt a twinge of guilt… before crushing the sensation mercilessly. His purpose was to spring.

“All right what happened?”

Bunnibal produced a thin crystal from somewhere and handed it to her. Rengal waved it over her desk and the contents flickered into sight: a review from one of Scope’s performing arts editors. Oh come on, she sighed, they sent Bunni to distract her because of a bad review? She wasn’t that unstable! The boy shook his head. It was much worse than a bad review, he insisted. Lupe Sebiestors could talk like normal people two tries out of eleven. Bunnibal stretched out a long slender twitching finger that mesmerized Rengal with its shape and inappropriate odor. Only after he tapped the air several times did her eyes focus on the words beyond its quivering tip. No, seriously, these boys were weapons.

Words, blah blah blah…

“With some horror, I found myself nodding along as a member of Imperial Amarr’s troupe observed: the Caldari sent Zan Mareiyaa; the Matari, Qaim Bok; and we, Ghiselle Arghelos. Who did the Gallente – sponsors of this undertaking – place on the same stage? Javierre Babelle.”

Rengal leaned back, closed her eyes, and wondered aloud why it couldn’t have been Sansha drones eating through the hull. She knew the pompous editor had overheard nothing and manufactured this scene to pimp a pet contention: Quafe’s teen lacked “qualities.” In fact, that young man had the best (correction, second best) ass Rengal had ever repeatedly laid eyes on. However, “Imperial Amarr” was blamed for dismissing him because “no reasonable person” could agree with superstitious slavers unless the stated facts stood undeniably before all. While any other performer on the tour would politely insist there had been a misunderstanding, the thought of antagonizing the young star would have been abhorrent to the Arghelos. “Make no enemy!” Rengal spoke to her Gallente counterpart, promising action. She called her “troupe” together and told Bunnibal to take a long shower. He tore off his designer rags on the spot and ran for the flowing heavens.

Twenty odd professionals sat somberly in Rengal’s parlor. The only young face otherwise among them was at that time contorting with autoerotic tension in her shower, and she knew it would take him all morning to rain down on New Caldari. The waiting list to enter bondage with House Arghelos stretched to a distant future. After graduating the University of Caille, Rengal spent a decade running the careers of Luminaire’s bohemians while waiting her turn at servitude. Finally enslaved, she spent another decade rising from kitchen help to Lady Ghiselle’s majordomo. Now composers, musicians, fashion designers, historians and coaches waited for her to speak. None possessed the genius of those eventually given the Arghelos name, but each commanded sufficient technical and artistic skills to be called “master” in one or more fields.

“Ghi Ghi will realize the story is asinine fabrication,” Rengal sighed, “but she must act decisively. I will recommend she send us all back to Dam-Torsad, keeping only Bunnibal here.”

They discussed this for some time. Apologies would not erase all doubt, and Babelle’s youth would render him more likely to take accusations at face value. Several individuals volunteered to confess and accept punishment. But Lady Ghiselle would refuse to single anyone out over a fabrication. At last, the soprano entered. She looked nothing like a glamorous model, celebrity, or socialite, but possessed a social gravity all her own – bending reality to its will. She sat near Rengal on an identical chair; immediately it became a throne. Ghiselle recognized there was a problem. Rengal explained. The star agreed with the proposed solution, however “Bunnibal might be happier with the larger group.”

The larger group diluted his “qualities.” Ghiselle was no squeamish prude. She spent her life around libertines, and avoided debauchery not from moral conviction, but a need to maintain robust artistic health. Bunnibal was certainly too much for any one person to handle, was he not; in fact, where was the boy? Masturbating in Rengal’s shower. Well, see, that was the Lady’s point. She couldn’t send him away, Rengal insisted. He would not see the politics, only the rebuke. They conferenced Sauol, and he promptly agreed with Rengal. Bunnibal recognized Ghiselle as alpha…. Oh come on!

“A Lupe’s loyalty is fanatical,” Sauol continued. “Bunnibal may appear immature, simple, deviant, but he will sacrifice without thinking. Sending him away denies that. Please Ghiselle – give him a chance to make you happy.”

Ordinarily, Rengal found everything about Sauol Arghelos distasteful. He rarely “acted” appropriately, as other members of the family strove to do. But when sincere, he was very sincere. Ghiselle agreed. Done with his rain, Bunnibal fidgeted damply as Rengal explained developments. The boy’s tangled hair pulled in more attention when wet, droplets sparking on tips. His long, inhumanly flexible spine shifted incessantly between curved slouches. Each motion flowed sensually, musculature stretching and bunching like rope in heavy cream. Rengal put palms forward, took a deep breath, and rushed to gather discarded clothing. Bunni had managed to fling musky stained fabric to every corner of the huge stateroom. Finished, she handed the pungent mass to him as a lump. Lifting her hands to pat her own hair, she realized his scent tainted her from even that simple contact. Weapons, they were weapons! Bunnibal continued to hold the pile of clothing.

“Put them on,” she instructed patiently.

Mutely, he pulled the rags over his skin, smooth and sensual… Rengal turned to face the original art on her walls. Bunni would be the only one remaining behind, she cautioned, and the tour had just begun. It was a lot of responsibility. Was he ready for that? Oh yes, the elongated half-naked beast insisted, he was ready! Strapped opposite one another as their drop ship shook furiously toward a resort hotel two miles tall, Rengal exchanged first a smile and then uncontrollable laughter with a wizened old Amarrian pianist named Piehtor. Above, somewhere in space, a middle aged artistic genius of uncompromising professionalism prepared for an elegant evening with the “help” of a young sexual mutant of uncompromising appeal.

Asked about their good spirits, “Heaven works its will,” Piehtor replied.