The Templar Belles – Parts I – VII by Bleeding Rainbow
A secret society which counts among them some of the most powerful men in the world welcomes a new crop of girls to their initiation ceremony. But even as the old guard celebrate their hedonistic traditions, the emergence of two new members heralds a new epoch for the order, and the true destiny of their chosen flock shall be revealed. , The Templar Belles
by Bleeding Rainbow
Disclaimer: This is a work of fiction and parody, to be read only by individuals aged 18 or above. The events depicted herewith are fantasy and do not reflect real world events or persons in any way..
Foreword: This story is a parody or fan fiction of a number of real-world celebrities. Rather than spam XNXX with a whole bunch of chapters at once, I elected to put them all into one single story instead. It is meant to be read as a whole, but the subject matter varies from chapter to chapter. The major, overarching themes include mind control, teens, romance and the supernatural. In addition to the codes already listed, the overall story codes are as follows:
M/F, M/f+, f/f, teen, mind control, plot, romance, incest, BDSM, non-sexual violence, supernatural
And the following is the content breakdown by chapter:
I. THE ARCHBISHOP (world building, no sex)
II. BELLA (world building, brief sexual accounts, incest)
III. CHLOE (M/Ff+)
IV. BELLA (M/f)
V. THE ARCHBISHOP (M/Ff, young, BDSM)
VI. ELLE (M/Ff+, femdom)
VII. THE PAINTER (world building, brief sexual accounts)
I: THE ARCHBISHOP
“…who work in silence…”
“…and naught but silence can express.”
With those words, so began the débutante ball.
The great white double doors at the top of the balcony swung open, revealing this year’s crop of initiates to those in the gallery below. Tradition demanded that each participant don a mask like those of a masquerade to keep their identities hidden from one another, but for the initiates and their accompanying chaperons, its importance in modern times had faded into a mere formality. For the figures below, however, there were stricter measures in place to ensure that none of them would know each other beyond the moniker they had chosen for themselves.
The effect of two dozen gazes falling simultaneously upon oneself was a daunting prospect even for the well-prepared initiate, and the diminutive young lady at the vanguard could be seen inhaling sharply as she felt the heads below turn toward her in open appraisal. Sensing her nervousness, the girl’s chaperon squeezed her hand reassuringly, prompting the initiate to take a step forward and begin her descent into the gallery.
Conversation was frowned upon during the solemn procession, but grunts of approval and sighs of appreciation began to ripple through the crowd as they recognized some of the initiates. While no walk of life was to be excluded from the pool of potential candidates, it behooved the organizers of the ball to choose only those with the most desirable physical attributes to be among their crop, as they were themselves the benefactors of their own reaping. As such, the ranks of the débutantes usually were filled with many actresses and singers, as well as the progeny of those who once had been in the public eye; their numbers were then bolstered by the daughters of modern royalty—heiresses of capitalist empires and figurehead monarchies.
The man who called himself the Archbishop smiled as he kept his eye on the first girl, meeting briefly with those of her chaperon—the girl’s mother, in truth—as they walked past. He had arranged personally for the fiery-haired actress to be in this year’s ball, having gone as far as planning her trip to the Emirates, lending her every assistance in her quest to retrieve an ancient artifact from yonder soil. That honor would be more than enough to earn him the deference of his peers to the right of First Claim, no matter the outcome of the lottery.
The Archbishop was old; too old, perhaps, for pursuits such as these if his compatriots knew his true identity. They went against the canon of his teachings as well, inviolable laws the preaching of which he oversaw. But the older he grew, the more enamored he became of the these arcane customs. The fact that this secret society existed in its current state was evidence enough that there was no longer a higher authority to judge him, alive or dead. He was at peace with knowing that he taught falsehood to his followers. There was no Hell in which he would burn for engaging in what amounted to the rape of minors, no great book of sins before a set of pearly gates in which the murders he had committed would be recorded. If there was any kind of authority on Earth, the Archbishop wielded it in his hands, and with them, he would take the reedy hips of his young prize and mount her from behind as he had done to many others of her ilk.
He had turned his attention to the other initiates when an unpleasant noise broke his revelry. The laughter rose behind him, but he did not have to look to identify its source.
Membership to the society was awarded not by committee but rather by sponsorship. Electing themselves to a council would contravene their paradigm of a decentralized structure, and therein lay the genius of the system in place; although only a single sponsor was needed to introduce new members, few existing members would have reason to add to their number and expand the lottery pool indiscriminately. Fresh blood, or “leeches” as the Fruit Peddler used to call them before his passing, seldom found themselves taught the proper signs required to enter the secret premises where the society’s meetings were held. When the débutante ball was last called, however, the society saw no less than two new members added to their ranks. The one who had chosen the guise of a dark-haired young man had called himself the Painter, and the other, a scruffy, barrel-chested man who was presumed to be his acquaintance was known as the Historian. They very nearly had made fools of themselves by carrying on with the air of upstarts, but fortunately they fared poorly in the lottery and were excluded from the choicest girls.
It was the Painter whose laughter had been heard. “Hey, it’s her,” he pointed with a free hand while cradling a near-empty champagne glass with the other. The tall blonde actress who was his target looked at him and made a face before her chaperon subtly corrected the girl’s etiquette. “Ain’t she the one you’ve been after?”
The Historian stood next to him, draining his own glass and taking a fresh one from a cowled servant. “I’m hoping, man, I’m hoping. Your girl’s looking adorable as hell tonight, too.”
The Painter turned, and the Archbishop could see that he was looking at the fiery-haired girl—the prize that was meant to be his. He could not help but grin in satisfaction, knowing the irritating leech was going to be disappointed.
The Proctor, a randomly chosen member whose task was to conduct the proceedings but had no actual authority, rapped his ceremonial staff on the floor and intoned, “Brothers, please observe the customs and keep silent until all the initiates have been presented.” The two leeches nodded cordially and looked toward the Archbishop of their own accord; somehow, they had sensed that there would be competition for the hand of the young red-haired girl.