Tezcatlipoca had just made
love to a nun and the irony was not lost on him. The chapel had been perfectly
decorated with candles throughout and the crucifix loomed large both above the
bed and around her neck at the center of a long string of wooden beads. Her
hair had been done in a bun when he removed the habit’s headdress and then
tumbled down her milky white shoulders as he drew her nearer and gently bit
into her novice’s nipples. For that’s what they were, she can’t have been older
than twenty.
He had taken the form of a
French prince and chosen the brothel on the banks of the Seine as a retreat
worthy enough of his somewhat eclectic needs. Whores, and many of them, opera
and wine. At home he was losing a battle. The useless emperor Montezuma vexed
him, his military losses were now spiritual losses for Tezcatlipoca whose
enemies had gained ground in the netherworld.
As requested his nuns (there
were enough for a nunnery) had left their lady hair unshaved and he picked one
of the nearest, lifted her scented petticoat and buried his head deep into that
most holy of places, a sanctuary denied him when he took his throne as King of
the underworld and Lord of the Smoking Mirror.
They needn’t have asked if he wanted more wine and
couldn’t on account of their vows of silence, his goblet was kept full even as
he drained it. Tonight it was only claret, another reason to choose France. He
had no hankering for the crude alcohol of his patria. The nun on whom he had
bestowed the favor of burying his beard between her legs was now offering an
alternative that pleased him and meant that she would fellate him whilst there
would be little or no wine drinking as she spread her legs and pushed her
buttocks towards his face. Tezcatlipoca’s long tongue devoured what was on
offer and his loins thus stirred he called back the novice so that he could
conquer her once more. She carefully sat across him while the other nun sat up,
still facing away from their lord and the two were inclined, not to kiss
exactly, but to touch breasts as each took their own pleasure.
“Ladies, I am lost for words.” He said in his best
French as they had all finished. “You have humbled a royal Prince. I am now but
a lowly pauper, a mere slave to your rare beauty and exceptional talents. Let
it please you all to take what is owed from my purse. Now go. I will be gone by
the time you are dressed.”
He took half from a round loaf of bread and pushed inside
it two roasted quails. His took his horse and left the nunnery’s gates behind
him. He needed to think.
Having eaten and drank more of the claret his mind’s
wheels began to turn with the oiling.
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