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The smell of burning wax fills Cregan's nostrils.
He can't say he's gotten used to it. Brain rotting with psychedelics and whispers of his Lord's lips. The push and pull that keeps him stuck to his side like a loyal lapdog.
Perhaps he's always been waiting to be one, a dog.
He looks up at his Lord with sparkling eyes and an oil-covered hand. How it drips down his flexing wrist, pleasuring the man sitting in front of him with just the coarse moves of his palm. His hard fingers.
It should be a risk, a goddamn crime. It isn't. The stifled moans of pleasure are beautiful. The community should be jealous that they wouldn't get their share. Cregan knows they'd want to please him. Do anything. But if there's jealousy there, what does he know? The community is beautiful, festering with unspoken energy.
The man who runs it. His Lord. The Lord of many. He holds these people in with his words, his specialty. He pants. Cregan grins. His Lord is close to a level of enrichment. Entering another plane.
A plane of pleasure given by his most loyal man. The candles flicker. Ripple. And his Lord falls apart.