To Sapphirewitche for being a wonderful and supportive friend.

This is not set in the Twilight Universe at all.

"You are nothing more than a mote in God's eye, boy," Father Masen spat, the dull thud of wood still echoing in my ears, as he left me locked in the pillory.

Shame was my only companion as I awaited my final punishment, my body forced into a kneeling position. The coarse wood rubbed sores into my ankles, wrists and neck, as I tearfully contemplated my time spent the seminary. I had worked hard to fulfill the future that Father Masen had planned for me. I was to become a vessel of God's will, a holy father like those who had raised me in the church's orphanage.

They plucked me from the gutter in which I was born, strengthened my body and enriched my soul that I might rise above my lowly begins as the unwanted bastard of a common street whore. All my life I had studied, and trained for this purpose. I had fasted, flagellated and successfully resisted the temptations of the flesh -until that night.

On the eve of my ordainment, in my nervous excitement, I sought the comfort and companionship of a fellow student. In truth, Jasper had been a close friend through my time in the seminary. His wise, insightful advice had helped me through many of the challenges to my faith that I had faced as I prepared for the life of a holy father. I had come to seek his counsel one last time, and to obtain his reassurance that I would be a good and faithful man of God.

"You will bring joy and beauty wherever you go, Edward. That I do not doubt," Jasper said pulling me into a tight embrace.

In my joy, and relief I succumbed to temptation. It was such a small movement, shifting my head to press my mouth to his, in a gesture of gratitude which I had seen an old couple exchange outside of our Sunday services. It seemed so sweet and innocent, but as Father Masen says: "It takes one grain of sand to start the crumbling of a mountain." I understood his meaning as I tasted the fruit that Jasper's soft lips had to offer. After that moment I could no longer go back to a life of silent, solitary contemplation. I needed more.

"She is here," Rosalie whispers, rushing past him toward her training chamber.

Master Carlisle has enlisted Rosalie to assist with training the newest member of the house, a former pit fighter, and constant strain on Edward's patience. Edward watches her retreating form, glad to be relieved of the strain of teaching Felix.

That hulking oaf has no place in a house of pleasure.

"I wish you luck with your pupil!" Edward's voice is pleasant, but his mocking grin shows his true feelings.

Rosalie stops just outside the entrance to her training chamber, and turns to glare at him. He had initially been offended when she refused to train him the art of pain. She received training from the Red Sisters of Volturi house, and it seemed logical that she would assist Edward with learning the last of the seductive arts he had yet to master. Logic, however, rarely prevails where Rosalie is concerned. Edward blamed her obvious jealousy over his surpassing her in every way since his arrival in Cullen house. Master Carlisle conceded to Rosalie and hired a Red Sister to be Edward's instructor.

"Careful how you judge the weakness of others, Edward," Rosalie hissed, grasping the silver door handle with her long delicate fingers.

She often spoke with the strange prophetic style of their Master. Edward dismissed it as her pathetic attempt to mimic Master Carlisle, but tonight her words sent a strange chill through him. As the ornately carved door closes behind her, he shakes off the strange feeling, and chastises himself for allowing a distraction to keep him from the task at hand.

With a sigh, he turns back to face the entrance to the house, adjusts his lapel, and smoothes his hair back from his face. He can hear the sound of men's voices and the clatter of horses' hooves, signaling the carriage that had brought his instructor. Edward checks his appearance one last time in the golden framed mirror beside him, as he anxiously awaits the appearance of his beautiful instructor. Tonight they would be alone, unobserved by his master, and Edward can feel his skin dance with anticipation.

The great oak doors of the entrance hall part to reveal the quickly darkening evening sky, as three figures stride into the hall. His instructor is accompanied by two guards of the order of the Moon, their muscles clearly visible beneath the skin tight leather breeches and sir coats. Their exposed calves display the intricate tattoos synonymous with their house. The cloaked figure of his instructor is a full head shorter than they, but she walks with the grace and confidence beholden to her social standing. Her hood is still up, casting her face in shadow to hide her beauty.

Edward tries to remain calm while his heart keeps time with each step of her feet, and threatens to reveal his true feelings. He silently counts her steps, waiting for her to draw close enough so that he can see her beautiful eyes.

He moves forward wordlessly, offering his hand and awaits the feel of her gloved grip. Her fingers grasp his and she raises her other hand to signal the guards to wait, and nods to Edward. He gives her a polite smile, concealing the glee that fills him at her touch, and leads her to the training chamber.

"How much for the boy?" A beautiful voice wakes me from my half sleep, and I blink away the rain from my eyes to see a richly adorned carriage stopped in front of me, the door being held open by gloved hand.

"This sinner is a lover of men, bound for the prison camps, Lord Cullen," the church guard spat as rain splashed off the brim of his helmet and splattered against the thick black velvet lining the door of the carriage.

"I have a cage better suited for this treasure," the voice said, as a bulging silken purse flew into the waiting hand of the guard, and I caught sight of an angelic face framed in golden hair.

The guard quickly opened the pillory, and pulled me out to stand in the now heavy downpour of rain. I fell to my knees, my legs aching and useless after a week of imprisonment.

"What is your name, boy?" The angel spoke to me, sending a shiver rushing through my body.

"Edward," I gasp, as the guard lifted me into the carriage, and I felt myself shake.

"Hmm...after Saint Edward of Elysian, I assume," his voice was like a caress, making my weary soul feel comfort and hope for the first time since I saw Jasper dragged away by the guards.

"Yes," I replied with grimace.

Saint Edward of Elysian was a simple monk that saw to the care of common street walkers and their illegitimate children. Father Masen was not without a sense of irony.

He closed doors to the chamber, shutting out prying eyes and quickly turned to watch her. She stood in the center of the chamber, pulling back her hood to reveal her shinning mahogany hair which had been woven into an intricate braid holding it suspended above her shoulders. Edward stifled a sigh of disappointment at not being able to see her hair loose.

He loved to see it brush against her narrow waist, but it was necessary for their work. She carefully tugged at the fingers of her gloves, pulling the silk fabric from her fingers, and quickly untied her cloak. He held his breath as the fabric slid back to reveal the pale skin of her shoulders, and she turned to smile at him.

The sight of her delicate features in profile quickened his pulse, and made him hesitate.

"Do you need some time before we begin?" Her voice woke him from his stupor, forcing him to steady himself, and walk over to stand beside her.

"I would not make you wait for my weakness," he replied, allowing a small sigh to slip past his guard, and was rewarded with her brilliant smile.

"Passion is not a weakness," she said, as her warm hand pressed against his cheek, and he had to close his eyes.

"So wise for one so young," He laughs at himself, stepping back to unfasten the front of his sir coat, and places it over the workbench at the foot of the bed.

"So guarded for one so beautiful," she says, with a musical laugh that sends heat through his body.

He tries to suppress the urge to look at her, and carefully unbuttons his sleeves to roll them up above his elbows.

"We shall start with you on your knees," he says, placing his palms on the smooth surface of the workbench and surveys his tools, and tries to decide where to start.

"The crop, whip, pick, spike, swan, claps...These are essential instruments in the art of pain," her voice took on an air of authority, sending shivers of anticipation through him as she waved her hand above the workbench.

Her tone and manner were similar to Carlisle's when he spoke of the art of pleasure, though my Master's voice has never summoned quite the same reaction from my body.

"It is hard to imagine that such cruel instruments could bring pleasure," I replied, picking up a thin silver needle and holding it up to the light.

"Pleasure takes many shapes," her voice deepened, as she wrapped her hand around mine to guide the tip of the needle to her naked breast.

"Wait!" I gasped as she held her breast with her other hand and pressed the needle against the underside of her nipple.

"Shhhhh," she breathed, increasing the pressure, and closed her eyes. "Do not fear."

"No!" I gasped as I felt the resistance of her flesh give way with a soft pop, as the tip of the needle emerged from the other side of the tight bud of flesh.

"Yes," she sighed, her lips trembling, as she smiled at me, and her eyes opened.

I could not speak as she slowly withdrew the needle, and a single drop of blood slid down her pale breast like a ruby tear drop. She caught it with the tip of her finger, lifted it to her mouth, and licked away the blood with relish. It was the most arousing sight I had ever had the fortune to witness.

"I am ready," she announces, spurring him to action, and he finally settles on the sleek leather wrapped crop.

The handle is thin in his broad palm, its hard body reminding him of the sharp pain just one quick moment of his wrist can cause with it. That knowledge used to frighten him in ways he could not comprehend, but now after two months under her instruction he felt nothing but confidence and arousal fill him as he turned to take in the sight of her exposed back. The pale skin there is covered with the stylized head of the Stag.

It is the crest of the Volturi house, and the brand of ownership. Edward glances at his own leather wrist cuff with the lion crest of Cullen house. His master prefers his servants wear jewelry to display his mark of possession.

"Wear it in public," Carlisle said, tying the stiff leather cuff around his wrist, and kissed Edward's palm before releasing his hand. "It will keep you safe."

I stared at the cuff in puzzlement. Masters mark their slaves with ink or brands to prevent theft or escape, this was tradition.

"I do not understand, Master," I spoke softly, bowing my head in submission to counteract my insolence. "Do you not plan to keep me?"

"I plan to keep you as long as you wish to be kept," he replied, his finger sliding under my chin and raising my face to look at him.

"Assume the position," his command is clear, and her body reacts in an instant.

She leans forward; placing her palms on the marble floor in front of her knees, and tilts her head toward her chest. The muscles of her back are stretched smooth, making her skin shine in the dim candle light.

He savors the sight of her body laid out before him as he slowly walks over to stand beside her, his boot heels clicking on the floor. Then he waits.

Ten, nine, eight, seven, six, five, four, three, two...

With the flick of his writs the crops snaps against the top of his leather boot. The resounding crack echoes through the chamber, and he sees his reward in the slight twitch in the muscles of her shoulders.

"We have not even begun and already you disappoint me," he sighs heavily, trying to instill the appropriate amount of dissatisfaction in his tone as he gently presses the toe of his boot into the soft divot just below the side of her breast. "Shall we start the punishment already?"

"I am sorry, Master," she whimpers, making his chest tighten with sympathy even as his cock hardens with arousal.

"Do not speak!" He brings the crop down across the smooth skin just below her shoulder blades, leaving an angry pale line across the knotted antlers of the Stag.

She gasps and shudders as her skin turns red where he struck. It makes a sharp contrast to the smoothness of her flesh, and the intricate design of the tattoo. The urge to kneel down to kiss the mark overwhelms him, but just as he lowers himself to touch her she turns her head.

"I am fine," she whispers harshly, jolting him back to himself, and he quickly raises back to stand.

He curses himself in his mind, and amends to stay on task. Edward is always mindful of his duties; his dedication to the arts of pleasure is unmatched among all of Carlisle's acolytes. Even Rosalie has admitted that he has no rival for the position of Master's prize. In the four years that he has served in this house he has never failed his Master, even now in the face of his instructor's disarming beauty and strength he would not fail.

Edward lets out a slow breath, as he lightly traces the lines of her tattoo with the tip of the crop, remembering her words during their first lesson.

"Pain is the destination, but, as it is with all the arts of pleasure, it is the journey that should be savored," she spoke wistfully, as she brushed my bare chest with the soft tendrils of the feather quill, and then suddenly she flipped it in her delicate hand to scratch the sharpen tip just below my nipple. "Though you should not neglect to remind them of what awaits."

Her breath catches as he gently slaps the side of her breast with the crop, taking joy in how the supple flesh ripples and reddens. She has been a wonderful instructor, wise, patient and so very tolerant.

"Rise up on your hands and knees," he speaks in a calm almost bored tone, reminding himself that his own reactions must always be guarded, and that she must be kept guessing as to where they were going next.

Her curvaceous hips rise into the air, as her body tilts forward to take the position he requested. He forces himself to walk slowly behind her kneeling form, as his eyes take in the tempting sight of her exposed sex set below the luminous globes of her ass. Using the tip of the crop he traces the inner curve of her thigh.

"Spread your legs," his voice wavers for just a second, before he steadies himself, and grazes the slick wetness between her legs.

She trembles, but makes no sound as he continues to tease her sex with light grazing strokes of the crop. This is when he is tested the most, seeing her pleasure being suppressed and yet so undeniably present. Forcing her to withhold it contradicts everything that Carlisle has ever taught him. Love, sex and sensuality should set our patrons free. They should be allowed to express their every desire without fear of judgment, but the art of pain has a different philosophy.

"Pleasure, when withheld or denied, intensifies over time," she spoke around a mouthful of grapes, while I struggled to suppress the urge to touch her, and wipe away the crimson droplet of juice that sat below her plump lip. "Once the patron is finally allowed to release that pleasure, the climax can be frighteningly powerful."

"How frightening could pleasure be?" I chuckle at the thought and she stops chewing to raise an eyebrow at me.

"I have had patrons lose consciousness," she said, lifting her wine glass to her stained lips and draining its contents in a single gulp.

Carlisle warned me that a session took a great deal of energy out of participants, and so I ensured that there were refreshments available. I had not expected her to eat so ravenously, and without regard to my presence. Most of my female patrons rarely ate while I was present, and if they did the food was usually incorporated into the pleasure play.

"I look forward to seeing it first hand," I chided, taking her glass to refill it, and nudged the tray of fruit closer to her.

"I look forward to making you lose consciousness," she said with a smirk that made me want to leap over the tray of fruit and take her right there.

"Please..." her voice is so faint that he almost did not hear it, but as soon as he realizes that she spoke, he brings down the crop in a swift movement.

It leaves another stark line across the flawless slightly pink flesh of her ass, causing her to gasp and moan. His body hardens at the sound of her pleasure, and sight of her quickly reddening flesh as he continues to bring down the crop on several swift strikes. The handle of the crop vibrates with each hit, causing the palm of his hand to become slightly numb, but he continues the torrent of blows until she finally cries out.

Her head jerks up, as her whole body shudders, and he stays his hand to survey his work. An angry lattice work of crimson marks cross her already swelling skin. He can almost see the welts pulse with her heartbeat, but he has to stay focused. He takes a deep breath to harden his resolve, and slaps his hand against her sore flesh. Her scream is even more shrill, and the urge to soothe her rises up again. She has yet to soglia proclamato, despite her cries or even begging he knows he is not to stop until they have reached an appropriate end or unless she proclaims that she has reached her threshold. Edward is still compelled to seek reassurance, sliding his hand up her spine, and grabs her hair in his fist.

"Have you reached your threshold, pet?" he sneers, leaning down to obtain a better view of her pained expression.

He wars with himself to not close the distance between them with a kiss.

"No, Master," her breath brushes his lips, as she trembles in his grasp.

"Good," he growls, baring his teeth in a savage grin to keep his desire for her under control. "Lean back."

He yanks his hand from her hair, and feels the tug as some of the satiny strands pull free from her scalp, but she makes no sound. Her trembling form complies with his orders, leaning back on her palms her knees spread open. He slides the crop under her back and gives her a playful slap.

"Hips out," he snaps, losing his breath as her hips jerk forward and her breasts bounce. "Lovely."

Her body is straining to maintain the position, trembling with the effort, and he knows what he must do.

"Yes," he says, and brings the crop down on tender skin of her inner thighs.

She grunts as her hips thrust up slightly with each hit, the movements mesmerize him, and he moves to strike her pert breasts. His mouth spreads in a grin as he increases his ministrations until she cries out again.

"Silence!" He steps forward, sliding his boot between her legs so that she may feel the hard leather against her heated flesh.

"Let us see how much pleasure my crop can bring you," he says, moving the crop between her legs, and teases her again.

Now he can watch her face as he rubs the leather tip along her moist tender flesh, drinking in her every moan and gasp. The tiny movements of her hips, swelling blush covering her breasts, and the way her lips part as she gasps for breath, all conspire to unravel his control. The muscles of his jaw tense and he fights the urge to lick the droplet of sweat that is sliding down her stomach.

It is said the Red Sisters of her house can withhold their climax until their master calls it forth. Edward believed it to be fallacy until he witnessed her in play. He had brought her close to edge of ecstasy both by pleasure and pain many times, and yet she never gave him her climax.

It was Edward's gift to bring his patrons to their greatest climax. He took great pride in his mastery of the art of seduction, sex and love. It was his sole purpose. Nothing could compare to joy he filled him at the sight of his patrons rapt in ecstasy, save one.

In his heart he longed to see his instructor's beautiful face transformed by pleasure, to hear the sounds that she makes as her release erupts from her body, and to know that he alone was the one that brought her to climax. It was a selfish and impossible wish. The gift of her climax was to be saved and savored by only her patrons. It was that privilege for which a patron paid. Edward couldn't stop the seed of jealousy that had sprouted to life within his heart at the knowledge that others could savor that of which he could only dream.

"If I could but see this to conclusion," he whispers, stepping back to once again wrestle himself back into control, and mentally curse his weakness.

Suddenly, her body shifts as she grasps his hand, pulling it and the crop away from her body. He watches in stunned silence as she raises the crop to her pouting lips and slides her pink tongue out to lick the accumulated moisture from the tip. It is her defiant gesture that tips the scales. In the length of a breath he is on her, fingers knotted in her hair, as he devours her mouth. Their bodies shift against each other, as he lays her out on the floor, and her hands eagerly open the front of his breeches.

"Bella," he gasps, as her delicate hand wraps around his length and they both freeze.

"Soglia proclamato is the only way we can both be sure that we clearly understand that there is a need to stop," she said, as she turned the pages of the ancient tomb that she brought from the library of her Master. "The great master used it as a measure to ensure the safety of a patron."

"A word, nothing more?" I asked, confused about how a word could interrupt the eruption of passion that can often cause a person to speak in gibberish. "How are you sure it will work?"

"Trust," she sighed, placing her hand on my wrist and I felt the familiar thrill at the most casual touch of her skin. "If we do not have that, no one can be safe."

She looks at him, her thick eyelashes brushing the tops of her cheeks as she panted. He could not move for fear that she would pull away. It was a mistake. He had not meant to proclaim his threshold.

"If your threshold has been reached you simply say my name," she sighed, her pale shoulders lifting with a casual grace that never failed to captivate me. "And, likewise I will call out yours, however unlikely that may be."

"But why use our names?" I continued to question her like the ignorant child that I am.

"It is tradition, and the old masters did nothing without reason," she said, her delicate fingers sliding through my hair, making me forget my reason for questioning anything she said.

He understood the reasoning of the old masters. As pleasure bringers, they were not here for their own satisfaction, but rather to learn how best to please their patrons and there by please their masters. If at any time they were to lose themselves in the moment a name would signal a change in intention and focus. Likewise, it would signal the end of the session, and reveal the shameful transgression to his master. It was a cruel kind of cleverness that lay behind the traditions of their trade.

"Edward," she sighs, raising her had to touch his cheek and he feels his heart clench at the sound.

She had just sealed the conclusion by responding with her soglia proclamato. His eyes close and he tries to shift away, but she does not release him, her grip on him is like iron.

"It is the end, is it not?" He asks, breathlessly.

"Not yet," she whispers against his lips, and pulls him inside of her in one swift movement.

He does not move, dwelling within her for a moment, feeling the gathering power of what has shifted between them. They can feel it build like the charged quality of the air before a storm. Her body clings to him, as her breath plays over his neck, and he presses his face to the silken skin of her shoulder.

"Are you a lover of men, Edward?" Carlisle's ice blue eyes held mine in a gaze that left me feeling naked, and weak.

"I do not know, Master," I stuttered, willing my mind to try to find the truth that he seeks. "I do find the sight and scent of women tempting. I often sought counsel to turn my thoughts away from them throughout my training in the seminary. Though, it was my sin in having lain with a man that cost me my freedom."

"The old masters once said that only through the release of pleasure can a soul truly be free," Carlisle spoke with a reverence that rivaled the holy fathers. "This is the gift we bring to our patrons, but we must not waste that gift on trifles. Pleasure is an art, not a function like the elimination of water. Treat your body as a temple, and the fruit that it bears with the reverence it deserves. Do not squander it aimlessly as common men do."

"Above all else in all the world, I wish to give my gift of pleasure to you," he says it in the hushed tones of a prayer or a confession, hoping she understands the meaning that comes from deep within his weak soul.

"My pleasure is yours alone," her confession lifts his spirit higher than any finely worded poem of love ever could.

"My love," he breathes his secret in a sigh across her warms skin, as he begins to move inside her, allowing himself to take joy in this moment of self indulgence.

"Yes," she moans, as her hips move against his, and her hands grip his shoulders.

Even as they tumble into the hurried rhythm of their shared desire, Edward's heart weighs down with the knowledge that, yet again, he is betraying all the hopes and dreams that a beloved master held for him.

"Edward!" She cries out, her climax calling to his body like a siren's song, and he reaches his release.

"I wish that I could give you more," he whispers, trying to extend their stolen moment by covering her face with kisses.

"You have given me the world," she replies in a strangled sob, and he tastes her tears on his lips.

"Have you heard the story of Edward of Elysian?" Carlisle sits beside the hearth and smiles at me, expectantly.

"Yes. Father Masen told me of how he nursed the unfortunate women of Elysian, as well as their unwanted children," I replied, my teeth still chattering from the cold, despite the warm blankets that covered me.

"No," Carlisle said with a frown, and dread filled me at the thought that I had offended him. "I apologize, son, but the good father did not tell you the true story."

He shifted in his seat, and waved his hand to me. I quickly shifted closer, leaning against the side of his chair as he took a deep breath, and began.

"Edward was a pleasure slave; bought from the flesh market of Elysian by the Empress Lithia as a present for her husband, the great Alzeer. It was said that the Emperor was quite taken with the boy, as he was beautiful as well as an exceptionally attentive lover. It was at the battle of Chacal, that Edward was sainted. When Alzeer was mortally wounded on the battlefield, Edward ran out to his master, uncaring of the enemy soldiers, who ceased their fighting at the sight of his angelic beauty. As Edward cradled his beloved master in his arms, and cried, his tears of love healed the Emperor's wounds," Carlisle's voice sent chills through me, even as the fire in his study seeped into my weary body. "Your namesake was not unlike you, Edward. Humble begins do not always lead to humble ends."

"I am honored beyond my deserving," I replied, trying to suppress the chattering of my teeth, worried that it would displease his ears.

I owed him a great debt, and I would have him repaid for saving me.

"I will train you in the arts of pleasure, and make you a member of my house," he said, offering his ringed hand to me. "If it is your wish."

"I will strive with every part of my worthless soul to please you, Master," I proclaim, placing a soft kiss upon his outstretched hand, and am startled when he pulls me into his arms.

"I see you as God sees you, Edward," Carlisle whispers, his lips brushing my temple, and wraps his arms around my shoulders. "You are a beautiful gift."

Author's Note:

I would like to that Chele681 for betaing this story. It wasn't easy, but she stuck with me and we made it through alive.

This is the start of a series of one shots that will follow the lives of several Twilight characters in this strange world I've created. I will be posting the next fic soon. I will be about the newest member of Cullen House, Felix.

All copyright and trademarked items mentioned herein belong to their respective owners. The remaining content is all mine. No copying or reproduction of this work is permitted without my express written authorization.