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There is no silence like that found in the halls of the Ko-Koronan monasteries. This was how the Ko-Koronans liked it, of course. Unnecessary words just clouded their minds and kept them from understanding. Peace was quiet contemplation. The noise and activity of the other villages could stay there.

Even as Matoro set the tablets in their places, it was quiet. When you treat the records of your civilization with great reverence, you don't really make that much noise. The solitude of the most private depository on the island was Matoro's greatest joy, if he'd ever let himself indulge in joy.

In such a setting, it would be impossible for Nuju to sneak up on Matoro. Even in the noisiest jungle, this would be impossible. Matoro knew Nuju was there before he felt the Turaga's hands on his waist. How could he not? They'd been there often enough. The two lingered like this, alone in the silence.

Nuju snaked a glacial pace down Matoro's neck and body with kisses. The translator was silent, simply closing his eyes in reaction. The only sound was of Nuju opening Matoro's rear access port. The Turaga traced lazy circles around the port with his fingers, triggering its auto-lubrication but not extracting any sound. Not that he wanted to.

As Nuju stood up, he unlocked Matoro's interface shaft and then his own. The metal tube sprang to life with a vigor uncharacteristic of the Turaga, shimmering as the firelight danced across its ridges. Matoro readied his own shaft, still unable to prophesy what Nuju intended. But as Nuju backed him against a table filled with tablets, he learned his future.

Matoro sat on the table, legs spread wide, his rear access port opening and moistening itself for its one true purpose. Without so much as a click of warning, Nuju buried himself in Matoro with one firm thrust. Neither uttered a sound as Nuju's shaft bore into Matoro with a skill only thousands of years could have given the Turaga. They locked cold blue eyes, communicating their passions only with their bodies.

For all his composure, Matoro was all lust on the inside. The way Nuju's shaft lit up millions of nerves in a white-hot blaze of pleasure made the efforts of the other monks feel absolutely pathetic. It was all he could do not to scream like one of the rutting Rahi. Every inch of Nuju filled him with wild sensation, the manic urge to throw his duties away if it meant spending his days as the Turaga's plaything.

Suddenly, Nuju grabbed Matoro's own ramrod shaft. He squeezed and rubbed it all while continuing to pound Matoro, almost daring his assistant to lose control. This was too much for Matoro, and he wordlessly spurted thick hot Protodermis over anything in his shaft's way. His release stained both himself and Nuju, who was now thrusting with even greater purpose. Before long, Matoro felt his port fill with Nuju's own Protodermis as Nuju's shaft thrashed around inside him.

Nuju slowly withdrew, more satisfied than he'd been in centuries. Protodermis ran down the table as Matoro sat still, too clouded over in ecstasy to care about his dripping port. Nuju embraced his assistant, shaking just a little.

Had they really just done that? It felt so good it had to be breaking some code. It wasn't the kind of thing to share at any council. But even if Nuju bragged, Matoro could always intercept it. Not that he thought it'd be necessary. Nuju wouldn't fuck and tell.

And anyway, who knew who else was doing it at that very moment, all over Mata Nui? It almost felt worth it to be a prophet of pleasure. Oh well. Perhaps if the other islanders would let anyone get word in edgewise...