Serving Ro-an

How different things would have been if I hadn’t decided to stop for a drink: a small bar on a small square in a small village in the remote French countryside that is La Creuze. I had parked my motorbike on the square and sat down on the terrace for a glass of cool beer.

She was beautiful, the woman who served me. Thirty, probably, older than I would usually feel attracted to, ten years older than I was. But she was different, intriguing, full of a fascinating natural deepness … and very, very beautiful. Slender and curvy at the same time. Raven hair down to her shoulders. Huge hazel-brown eyes. She exactly ticked every box on my wish list.

“Je m’appelle Madeleine,” she said, as she sat down at my table – she wasn’t in a hurry, the only other customer in the bar was an old man slowly polishing off a carafe of local wine. He wouldn’t need service for a while.

“Peter,” I answered in English. “Or Pierre, if you prefer.” My French was basic at best.

She laughed and put her hand on mine. “Pierre, I like that name.” She spoke our language with a cute accent, but otherwise perfectly. “Did you know it means ‘rock’ in French? It suits you, strong and dependable; beautiful but tough. How old are you, Pierre?”

“Twenty”

She gasped and looked at me again. Her fingers rummaged through my blond hair, which I always wore slightly longer than most men would.

“Twenty … just the right age for a man. And where are you going, my handsome ‘stony’ friend.”

“Everywhere,” I replied, “and nowhere. I am on a gap year motorcycle trip around Europe. Random journeys to unknown towns where I will stay for a day or two, before I get on my bike and go somewhere else.”

“And will you be staying here overnight, then.”

I hadn’t planned on it; I had wanted to get a bit further towards Limoges. But I was enjoying her attentions and I was sorely tempted by her offer. I attempted a Gallic shrug of the shoulders, which told her that everything was up for grabs.

“Good,” she said, “I’ll have a room prepared for you.”

My eye was drawn by a group of lads that entered the square from a side road. At first glance the group looked perfectly normal, about fifteen kids between ten and fourteen years old, nothing unusual. Then, from the centre of the group, a wheelchair appeared and things didn’t look that normal anymore. In the chair sat a boy and he looked happy, laughing and joking with his friends, and that was remarkable, because he seemed to be in a bad way. Both legs were in bright white plaster casts from his toes to the edge of his shorts. Both arms were in similarly impressive casts from the tips of his fingers going all the way up, until they disappeared under his shirt.

How could a boy be laughing in his condition?

“Good grief, the poor lad.”

My remark made Madeleine turn around and a tender smile appeared. “That is Francois, my youngest brother. My special little brother.”

“What happened to him?” I didn’t want to pry, but the sight was so astonishing that I couldn’t help myself. “Did he break all his limbs?”

“Francois’ bones have to protected at all times. None are broken at the moment, but we cannot take any risks.”

“Brittle bone disease?”

“Not exactly, but vulnerable nonetheless. He’s been in that wheelchair and in plaster since he was 8, 4 years ago.”

I expressed my sympathy at his plight, but his sister shrugged. “He says he is used to the feeling of the casts. Did you ever break a bone?”

“No, fortunately not. Never broken anything, never been ill, never seen a hospital from the inside. I’ve been lucky.”

Madeleine looked genuinely pleased for me. “Good. That is great,” she said somewhat weirdly, “It would have been a terrible shame if you had broken your lovely bones when you were young.”

The old man grunted and swung an arm that made Madeleine get up to refill his carafe. I looked again at the group of boys and my heart stirred at the sight of the unmoving figure in the chair. Poor lad. Four years with all limbs in plaster and no end in sight, by the sound of it. And despite his misfortune he was happy.

***

When evening fell over the village of Roubiage, I still sat at my table on the terrace. I’d drunk too much to continue my journey, had I wanted to. But that wasn’t a problem, as I didn’t want to move. I was perfectly content being looked after by Madeleine, fed, refreshed and even given some sort of entertainment. A steady stream of villagers had come up to talk to me: the mayor and his wife, the local school teacher, who was younger and almost as attractive as Madeleine, the butcher, and a few more people whose accents were too strong to get an idea who they were, but each insisted on sharing a glass of wine with me, so by evening time I definitely couldn’t get back on my bike.

“One last drink before bedtime?”

Madeleine stood next to me with two glasses of Cognac. I pulled back the chair next to me as an invitation and she handed me a generous measure of brandy. For a while we enjoyed the cool night air, sipping from our glasses.

“Are you guys always this welcoming to complete strangers?”

Madeleine smiled. “Not usually, but you are special. We were waiting for you.”

“What do you mean?” I asked, feeling a little giddy, unaware of her strange answer.

“How much do you know about this area of France?”

I admitted that I wasn’t all that familiar with La Creuze, except that it was remote, rugged and only part-developed.

“Pas de problème,” she said. “Sit back and drink your Cognac, while I explain the ways of my people. This is an old country, with old habits … and old believes. For thousands of years the people here worshipped Ro-an, an ancient Goddess mostly associated with Mother Earth, but also with fertility and the harvest. She was Gaia, Demeter and the Venus von Willendorf in one Deity. Then the Romans came and tried to destroy our religion – in truth they only pushed it underground.”

Where the hell was she on about?

“Christianity came and provided a gloss of religious respectability to this area,” Madeleine said as she indicated towards the village church, “but in fact the ancient religion never disappeared. Our Catholicism is just pretence. When nobody pays attention, we still worship Ro-an in this village and in the villages for miles around.”

“But what does that have to do with welcoming me?” I was getting somewhat ill at ease now.

“Everything, my dear Pierre, everything. There are certain rules that have to be followed. Every eight years Ro-an desires a Servant and the requirements are very strict. Only very few people are suitable. Generally, we choose someone from our own community, but due to an accident we are suddenly without a suitable Servant. We need a replacement urgently and you happen to be perfect. Sit down! Please …”

During her explanation I had got up off my chair, half wanting to flee to my motorbike. Drunk or not, I wasn’t sure I wanted to hear where this was going to end.

“There were enough sleeping pills in that brandy to fell an ox. You won’t make it out of the village, let alone out of the Arrondissement.”

As if in a trance, I sat down as she told me. “Are you going to kill me?”

Madeleine laughed heartily. “What do you think we are? Savages? No, we won’t kill you. You will be well cared for, but you won’t be allowed to leave.”

The sleeping pills were starting to make me feel drowsy.

“A candidate Servant is always chosen at 8 years old, when he is ‘prepared’. The future servant goes through various stages of development: at 20 he is ‘initiated’ and finally he is ‘introduced into the temple’ at the age of 32, at that point he becomes a real servant. There should always be three candidates, 8 years apart age-wise.

Currently Francois, my 12-year-old brother is the youngest; he was chosen and ‘Prepared’ when he was 8. Didier, the son of a local farmer, is the oldest at 28. He was ‘Initiated’ 8 years ago and he will be ‘Introduced into the Temple’ in four years’ time.

Marcel, the son of the boulanger, was 20. He was about to be ‘Initiated’ this week, but he was killed by a van hitting his wheelchair two months ago. Even his cast couldn’t protect him from that impact.”

My fogged-up mind had trouble keeping the names and ages apart.

“When Marcel died, we suddenly lacked a candidate and forty centuries of continuous worship were in danger. We needed to find a replacement candidate aged 20, stunningly handsome, and flawless: no illnesses, no past injuries, and especially no former broken bones. None of the 20-year-old men in any of the villages meets those requirements … and then today you come along … perfect in every sense: beautiful, the right age, never injured … Heaven sent, surely … Ro-an sent.”

If she said anything after that, it passed me by. The pills had overpowered me.

When I woke, it was the next morning – or that is what I have always assumed. I was lying on a stone altar, naked, but unbound and alone. This should have been my chance to get away, but as I tried to sit up, nothing happened. Not a muscle obeyed my brain’s instructions. While my brain sent my body desperate orders to get up and get out, it just stayed where it was: perfectly still.

“A muscle paralysing drug, in case you were wondering,” Madeleine explained as she walked into view half an hour later. A single finger ran from my chin down across my throat. “We can’t have you obstruct our efforts while you are being ‘Initiated’.”

She stroked my chest, slowly descending to my six-pack. “I can’t believe how lucky we’ve been finding you. What looked like a disaster has turned into us finding the most gorgeous candidate in decades.” Her fingers play with the hair on my lower belly. “Not luck, I suppose, but the doing of Ro-an herself.”

She clapped her hands and eight women entered to room. I recognised the young schoolteacher and the much older Mayor’s wife. The group probably ranged in age from 18 to at least 50, but even the older ones were remarkably well preserved. Without any further bidding from Madeleine, they arranged themselves around my prone figure, four on each side.

“We are the nine Priestesses of Ro-an,” Madeleine said, “and we will perform your Initiation. Normally, a candidate would have been Prepared for this stage ever since his eighth birthday. He would have known what will happen and be comfortable with it. In your case, it may be a bit of a shock to the system, but we know what we are doing and we will take good care of you.”

A barely visible nod of her head sent her fellow priestesses in action. Two of them lifted each powerless leg and pulled a thin cloth tube up over the limb until it reached my groin. A wider shroud was pulled over both legs, covering my body from mid-thigh to shoulders, while two narrow ones were used to swathe my arms. Inside a few minutes most of me was covered in a fine cotton fabric.

“Our ceremonies haven’t changed, even if the materials we use, have.”

I tried to ask what they were going to do, but I couldn’t make a sound. Madeleine seemed to notice my attempts.

“You will become a Servant, you listen and obey; you don’t speak. For convenience later on, we’ve inserted a breathing tube down your throat, which stops you uttering any sounds.”

“When they are eight-years old, the candidate Servants are chosen,” Madeleine, the high priestess, continued. “When they are chosen they are perfect: Healthy and never been injured at any stage in their lives. To ensure they stay that way, we protect their bones. For four years they are in two long arm casts and two long leg casts, forcing them to use wheelchairs. You’ve seen Francois. They have to be helped with everything, but they know they will be Ro-an’s Servant and they are happy and proud to be chosen. After four years, to increase the protection of their bodies, the four casts are replaced with a body cast covering almost all of their bodies below the neck. The candidate now learns what it is to be entirely immobile and the eight years of immobility that follow prepare him for the Initiation stage. Without that preparation, going through the Initiation now will be a bit of a shock for you.”

While Madeleine was talking, her fellow celebrants had wrapped my legs in a thick layer of cotton wool, starting at my toes and working up methodically until they reached my hips. Two women on either side of me continued with the wool going over my hips and belly, while the others returned to my feet, wrapping them in something different.

“Plaster of Paris bandages,” Madeleine explained.

I watched curiously, as my feet were covered generously in a wrap of wet bandages.

“In the old days, before plaster casts were invented, we used bandages impregnated with tree-bark resin. They took ages to harden and never were as strong as plaster, but they did the trick.”

The two casts had reached my knees; the cotton wool had reached my finger tips. The priestesses who finished with the padding returned to the foot end of the altar and as the two leg casts began to extend over my thighs, they started a new layer of plaster over my toes.

For fifteen minutes everyone was quiet. I watched in astonishment as my legs disappeared under more and more layers of plaster. The top of the leg casts was carefully being moulded round my groin and hips, but the women at my feet just seemed to be trying to make the cast as thick as possible. The heat from the massively thick curing plaster was only just bearable, but mute and paralysed, there was nothing I could do to protest. The first group of women began to wrap the bandages over my trunk.

“The number of bandages is governed by the sacred numbers, all powers of two.” I was informed. “64 – that is 2 to the power 6 – rolls of plaster around each leg. 32 over each arm, and 128 around your body.”

I didn’t know much about casts, but 64 rolls sounded like an awful lot. Thus far I’d seen about 20 rolls go on each leg and they seemed to be very well covered already.

“We’ll also apply 64 rolls around your head and once that is finished, another 128 rolls to cover your entire body one more time. That makes 512, or 2 to the 9, rolls in total … about a mile-and-a-half of plaster bandage.”

I was shocked as I realised that they were going to wrap my head, and wrap it in an enormous amount of plaster. What shocked me even more though, was the realisation that I was weirdly excited by the idea. My belly and chest had already disappeared under the plaster. My legs seemed to be twice as wide as normal, enormous white tree trunks, barely recognisable as human limbs except for the tips of my big toes which were just visible at the far end. And that was only the beginning; the plaster would continue to grow longer and thicker until my entire body was going to be contained by a layer of rock-hard plaster that was several inches deep.

My tool began to grow.

I realised that once they had finished I wouldn’t be able to move at all. Literally covered head-to-toe in an inflexible stone cocoon. For how long?

The cast was starting to engulf my upper arms.

Madeleine’s explanation from yesterday flooded back into my mind and it dawned on me that Didier, the 28-year-old guy, was Initiated eight years ago and would be Introduced in four years time. Was he still in a cast like this? Would I be in this cast for twelve years too? The young boy, Francois, was going to be in a bodycast for eight years before he was going to experience this. If they were happy to force a boy in a bodycast for eight years, then they probably won’t worry about doing the same thing to an adult man.

Twelve years of living inside a rock.

Why did it make me feel so good?

With 128 rolls of plaster covering my torso, I looked like a pillar. My arms were covered in the initial layer and the women were ready to take care of my head. The bit I feared most … and was looking forward to most.

“We’re going to remove the pillow. Just lean back and try to relax. We won’t hurt you while we cover your head, but we will need to temporarily cover your face.”

My whole head was rapidly covered with the cotton fabric and a nice thick layer of cotton wool. Only a small gap over my mouth allowed me to breathe. Heavy plaster bandages were pulled over my neck and chin, wrapped over my temples and forehead. The weight of the wet plaster allowed me to follow exactly what they were doing. I could feel their hands rubbing and moulding the thick plaster around my jaw and neck. Suddenly the cotton was opened up and folded back over the plaster, creating an opening around my eyes, mouth and ears.

“We’ve used eight rolls of plaster on his head thus far,” one of the women said, “so you have to add 56 more.”

From the little I could see, the edge around my eyebrows already looked pretty thick and, as roll after roll of plaster was wrapped around my head and neck, my field of vision seemed to disappear into a deep trench of white rock. How thick was this part of the cast? Two inches? Three inches? It seemed to be at least that much.

Would they ever be able to remove a plaster cast as thick as this one?

While they used the last 128 rolls of plaster to wrap my body once more – adding another half inch to the depth of the plaster that covered my head (and the rest of me as well, probably) – I came to the realisation that this would be a cast for life. The material would just be too thick and too hard to remove.

With their work done, the eight priestesses left me alone with Madeleine, their leader. She looked down into the deep hole that left my face exposed, while her hand cupped my balls and gently kneaded them.

“I’m glad to see the experience hasn’t been as traumatic for you as I feared,” she said, before disappearing from view.

Her tongue, wet and silky, touched my cockhead and sent a shiver of excitement down my tool. I could feel my blood pulsing as it rushed down to fill my already engorged member until it was so full and rigid that I feared it might rupture.

“As I explained earlier, Ro-an is amongst others the embodiment of fertility. To celebrate this, once a day, we will use your young fertile body to "irrigate our fields”. It will be the way in which you will serve Ro-an during the your 12 years after your initiation.”

Around the edge of my plaster-restricted field of view, I could see her climb onto the altar, straddling my encased body. The excitement almost overwhelmed me: I was going to spend years tightly contained in a thick plaster prison, the powerless servant of nine beautiful women who would make love to me, whether I wanted it or not.

I am ashamed to say I lost consciousness as my cock sank deep into the high priestess.

***

Those fateful two days happened 12 years ago.

Twelve years I’ve lain on my altar almost without a day’s respite. For twelve years I’ve been contained in plaster. In those twelve years I haven’t moved a muscle other than those in my face. And every day of those twelve years, one of the younger priestesses came to my room, or chapel or whatever it is supposed to be, and made love to me.

If that wasn’t the most enjoyable time of my life, I do not know what was.

It was so weird to realise that I craved this. I’d never thought about bondage before, so the realisation that I loved to be immobilised like this came as a complete shock. But a pleasant shock, in view of my current circumstance.

In the past twelve years, I was taken from my room only once, eight years ago. I was lifted up and carried into the next room where a stone altar was occupied by a heavily casted man in a position identical to mine.

“You will bear witness to Didier’s Introduction into the Temple,” the high priestess explained quietly, as the ceremony began.

One by one the nine women kissed the face, deeply buried in plaster, of Ro-an’s next servant. Madeleine, the last to kiss him, took a thick oval shaped pad of cotton wool and tucked it into the opening, careful to avoid obstructing the breathing tube in his mouth and the feeding tube in his nose. Layer by layer, pieces of plaster bandage were used to fill up the hole in Didier’s cast that had allowed him to see in the past twelve years. Each new piece of plaster was moulded and rubbed against the surrounding cast, building up a stronger and stronger shell over the man’s face.

‘The bottom layers must have set already,’ I remember thinking halfway through, ‘so his face is locked away forever.’ And my manhood immediately reacted to that emotion. ‘One day this is going to happen to you too.’

While four of the women were working on his face, the other four had catheterized Didier thoroughly with a thin long tube going deep into his bladder and a short wide one being fed into his behind. With his exits secured, the bottom opening was treated in much the same way as the top one. The priestesses were taking their time as they sculpted the cast one leaf at a time, until they reached the level of the existing plaster.

“We have used 12 rolls of plaster to fill in the openings. That makes the total number imperfect, so we are going to cover the whole cast with another 500 rolls. That will make a total of 1024, which is 2 to the power 10 rolls of plaster.”

I looked on in astonishment as they covered the – far from small – bodycast with layer after layer of plaster. 500 rolls is a fair amount of plaster, believe me, I’ve lived inside it for years. A man’s body covered with more than a 1000 rolls turns into a massive shapeless white blob. I doubt that Didier could notice what was happening, but I knew that underneath about ten inches of plaster there was a living breathing man, who would never be able to move again.

And I would be next.

I watched on in astonishment as the priestesses wrapped layer upon layer of plaster over the already monstrous cast. Especially his head and groin, with their freshly made seals got a lot of attention. The openings that had until now revealed the tips of his fingers and toes were sealed over with a few dozen layers of plaster until there was not an inch of Didier’s body that wasn’t hidden below many inches of stone.

I imagined him frozen rigid inside the cast for ever. Unmoving for the rest of his days. And one day I would undergo the same procedure, be entombed in ten or fifteen inches of plaster, and forced to live the rest of my life in splendid isolation.

When the new plaster had set sufficiently, Didier was carried into the temple with a lot of effort, and, in my full body cast, I was carried behind to witness the ceremony. With lots of circumstance, he was placed in one of a dozen niches behind a great altar, the fifth plaster encased body there. Later I was told that the most central niche was occupied by a man called Antoine, who had turned 96 a few months before. 96! He’d lain in his plaster cast of 64 years! He’d been in a body cast for 84, ever since he was casted as a 12-year-old boy.

Will I be as lucky?

***

Yesterday evening, after making love to me, Madeleine told me that I will be Introduced into the temple today. “There is one thing I haven’t told you yet,” she said. “You will be the 512th servant of Ro-an and you have been here long enough to know that 512 is a sacred number. For especially sacred servants, like you, we double the number of bandages from the previous sacred servant. So the fourth servant was wrapped in 2048 bandages, the eighth in 4096, the sixteenth in 8192 and so forth. The 256th servant, 2000 years ago, was covered with 131,072 bandages, and that means we will wrap you in 262,144 bandages.”

I wasn’t really grasping what she said.

“We estimate that, when we are finished, you will be at the centre of an oblong sphere 12 feet long and 6 feet across, all solid plaster. Of course you probably won’t be able to tell the difference, from the inside an inch of plaster should feel the same as a foot. But I thought you should know it nevertheless.”

She left me to sleep the last night before my encasement, but I didn’t get much sleep. Fear and excitement kept me awake. I had known for eight years that this moment would come, the moment that they would seal my cast and cut me off from the world. But the knowledge that I will be covered all over by two to three feet of plaster, trapped for ever inside a massive rock, keeps me hard through the night. When Madeleine returns to prepare me, she smiles, undresses and straddles my cast.

“I see you are not ready yet, that you have more to give,” she says as she lowers herself onto my manhood. Ten minutes later I have the biggest orgasm of my life, the biggest and appropriately, the last.

Now I am lying on the altar and hear the excited chatter of the spectators, hidden by the edge of the plaster around my face. I am scared. What will it be like to be locked away eternally? I already know what it is like to be unable to move, of course, but to be blind and deaf to the world as well …

The ninth kiss I receive is by Madeleine, who smiles at me before she produces an oval of cotton wool, which fits perfectly inside the opening around my face. She gently pushes it down over my face, locking away the light...

THE END

 

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12.10.16