Try to read it

Drumming with your fingers at the leather cover, you think about it. Sure, you are not the best reader nor well versed in the elvish language. But perhaps it was better to get a peek, before you acquire the help of somebody else.

You open the tome, slowly, and feel a strange tingling sensation brushing your fingertips. The tome is easily opened, and you begin to slowly decipher the symbols.

The first page alone is a though one. It takes a lot of concentration at first, but then you are able to understand. It deals with a cult. And demons. Oh yes. And power. No wonder one would keep this a secret.

What is written on these pages is not for the weak-willed. It describes in detail and flowery language the rites of a religion worshiping a fertility and lust goddess of a much older, much more primitive faith of the elves. It speaks of how to keep her at bay, the Lady of Midnight, She Who Hungers, The Lifegiver. There are rites of summoning lesser demons, how to deal with them, how to breed them and how to take their children from them to strengthen the tribe. Rites to satisfy her lust for carnal energy, to feed her and appease her. The words paint pictures in your mind, strong pictures of tribes of elves in earlier times, hiding in caves from a terror from the sky or rutting in the underbrush of primal forests filled with creatures unknown to man. You feel your pants constraining the growing bulge between your legs as you watch the initiated acolytes and priestesses perform obscene, lewd orgies in the light of the moon, rewarding the best, strong-willed studs long live, fertility and willing whores from her congregations while draining the lesser of everything they could give the goddess, including their blood and soul as naked priestesses rode them, painted with the colors of leaf, earth and stone.

You read about true names, about the hatred and utter adoration for the human colonists who spread so fast, about the fear of their conservative, caste gods and about plans to return everything back to the balanced state before.

Moments, Minutes, Hours, Days, Months, Years, Centuries flash before your eyes. You find yourself aroused, painfully so, shuddering and lying on the floor, the book still in your hands.

It was over. You breathe, slowly, feel every muscle in your body ache.

It takes effort to get up. Your head feels like it is about to burst from the sharp, stinging pain. Steadying yourself on the bed, you clumsily fit the tome back into its container and close it. Oh gods. No wonder this was kept secret. Secretly, a faint spark of hope: that it was all just an elaborate elvish novel. A naughty novel, but still a novel.

Wandering back to your chambers, almost dazed, you decided that it was a novel. A particular perverted one, taboo perhaps, and thus she had to hide it. Yes, that was the reason why both boxes had been under the bed. Yes.

You pour yourself some wine and grab the book that Marissa gave you to read again, but the pictures won't leave your mind as if they burned themselves into your skull and the back of your eye lids. You can almost smell every scene, hear every sound, the squelching, slapping, moaning, gushing, pleading, screaming…

Lost in thought, you sip on your wine and pretend to read when the door to your chambers open.