* Erotic Fiction
* Queer Fiction
* Kinky Erotica
* The Softer Side
By Alice Gray
The Fourth Veda
By Amanda Earl
Beating the Gothic Out of Her
Mercy and the Man. . .
Sex With An Old Woman
The Afternoon Circle Jerk Society
The Graffiti Artist
The Vampire Responds
By Ann Regentin
What Never Dies
By Arthur Chappell
Tedia, Goddess of Boredom
The Too Beautiful Boy
By Big Ed Magusson
Like a Brother
By B.K. Bilicki
Shades of Night
By Brady Sutton
Girls for Leash
The Peculiar Case of...
By C. Sanchez-Garcia
An Early Winter Train
Riding the Dog
The Girl With Kisses...
The Lady and The Unicorn
You Belong to Me
An Evening At...
Are You Kidding?
Bitsy Takes a Test
Cruising On A Sea...
Fridays At The Benoit
Mr. Merridawn's Hum
Readiness Is All
By Cherry Black
Just A Simple Black Dress
By Chris Bridges
By Daddy X
A Woman in My Position
Never For Punishment
Nikki Didn't Like It
By Dominic Santi
Kiss of Peace
By G. E. Russell
First Love, Last Romance
The Glass Cage
This Desolate Eden
You Like It Like That...
By Helen E. H. Madden
Husbands and Wives
Neighbor of the Beast
Over the Rainbow
The Fifth Horseman
The Monster Beneath...
When The Angels Fall
By Helena Settimana
The Space Between
By Huck Pilgrim
A Small Favor
He Sends His Regrets
By J.T. Benjamin
Advice From Miss Millicent
Secret Lives and Lusts
What are Friends For
Olivia's Ulterior Motive
The Baby Doll
The Journals of Chastity
Thornburg Sex Survey
Zachary's Perfect Date
A House On Fire?
It's About Sex
Maureen and Sheila...
Sheila Discusses ...
By john e
I Wish My Dick...
johnny's jackoff journal
In Praise of Pussy
Tight, Tighter, Tightest
You Rang Madam?
By Juniper Maclay
By Keziah Hill
Laying Down the Law
Strawberry Flavoured Joy
The Second Coming
By L.A. Smith
By Lara Nickles
By Lilie Berlin
Color Less Ordinary
Naughty Little Girl
By Mike Kimera
At the Adult Bookstore
It May Not be Art...
Living With It...
Paying For It
Playing With Barney
Sex with Owen
Till Death Do Us Part
The Last Taboo
By Nan Andrews
By Nick Nicholson
Grigore & Tatiana
Land of Smiles
By Nikki Isaak
A Rathskeller Jar
The Dread That Stained Kalos
Androids Behaving Badly
Eat Your Veggies
Fiend in Need Part II
I Am Not A Scorpion
Maybe You Can Go...
The Vow Part I
What Would Aristippus Think
By Raziel Moore
Invisible Lines (Novella)
The Too Beautiful Boy
by Arthur Chappell
You might not think so to look at me now but I was once fit, rather than fat. In those days I was sceptical of all things paranormal, but that was before my sexual energies were drained like a barrel of fine wine by the worshippers of Lilith. It was a time of lust and unhealthy appetites, when I could eat and eat without putting weight on, and my passion drive was equally relentless.
I was born too beautiful. That may read like an egotistical boast but it is literally true and my beauty was a curse. When I was three, my Mother went mad and tried to disfigure me with a razor blade. My father stopped her before she could cut my face open and she was sectioned under the British Mental Health Act. She died in the asylum soon afterwards. My father only told me of this on his deathbed when I was seventeen. For years before then he had told me that she had been killed in a car crash. My hedonism shocked his already breaking heart, but he died admitting that he would have made love to so many women too, had he shared my stamina and my looks.
My mother had been convinced that I would become vain and Narcissistic. She had the wrong mythical archetype though. I was not Narcissus reborn, but the new Ganymede. His was the myth of being the most beautiful of male mortals – so much so that he was snatched from the Earth to serve as a plaything to the Olympian gods, and ultimately a sex slave to Zeus.
My destiny and damnation kept me from any real arduous physical work. The building sites and warehouses were not for me. My hands were never to grow hardened and calloused through physical graft. At my Manchester University art course I was moved from being a student to being a life model for endless nude studies, mostly in the classical tradition. I was soon modelling for women’s magazines and making a few pornographic movies too.
I rarely had to ask girls to go out with me on dates. They threw themselves at me. Many fainted at the merest glimpse of me. The professors dismissed several studies of me from the art classes as more explicit and erotic than aesthetic. I was a magnet for voyeurs who would stare at me for hours mesmerized. Many art students forgot to actually draw, paint or sculpt. They just gazed at me, entranced, drooling, and finding excuses to go out of the room to give themselves hand release.
Inevitably, there were girls to who I just had to say no. Some regrettably took to self-harm, and at least two committed suicide over me. When I learned of that, I was tempted to disfigure myself, as my Mother had tried to do to me, but I didn’t have the guts to proceed with it.
I had many male admirers too, but after a brief, and far from unpleasant flirtation with homosexuality, I decided that I was more inclined to pursue the female form, or at least allow myself to be caught more easily by the ladies in pursuit of me.
Finding bars where I could just go for a quiet drink was quite a challenge. I was refused entry to many where I had flirted with the ladies or where those who had desired me had got into jealous catfights with one another once I had left without them. I left a trail of lovesick bitter rivalry everywhere I went.
My increasingly insatiable lusts led me to a number of unconventional clubs and societies in my late twenties. I got into the swinging scene because people into that were more sexually mature and aware. Such bars were also often dark, so I thought it would be easy to sit anonymously in the shadows. What I didn’t realize was that some women hunt specifically in such shadows. Two such predators soon found me there. They were ‘The Lilith’, or Janet & Mary, to give them their independent identities. They both had a fixation on the Lilith myth, and competed to be known by that name.
Initially, I took them for twins, but they were not even sisters or related in any way. They had absorbed so much personality from each other that telling them apart was a daunting, though not impossible task. Looking closely, I saw Janet to be an inch taller, though she was a year younger than Mary. Janet was a spontaneous chatterbox, while Mary was thoughtful, introspective and reserved. When she spoke, she could make the most commonplace observation sound profound. She had a more commanding tone. Janet clearly obeyed her final wishes in all matters. There were many individual quirks and personality traits that betrayed their efforts to pass for one another’s clones. The girls were reflections of one another’s souls, if either had a soul, given their Gothic fixation on all things Satanic and pagan.
They wore black – no surprises there. Their hair was set in spikes. Janet had a few purple streaks and sure enough, Mary had set matching ones to her own. The girls wore short black skirts, with dark panties just visible when they sat down or danced fast. They wore torn fishnets and black boots. Each had an inverted Egyptian ankh round her neck, but relatively little mascara or lip gloss, giving them a natural pale look amidst the over-caked Emos and Goths posing and prancing around us.
I wore a plain black tee shirt and black jeans. I rarely made special effort to dress up, other than in trying to disguise my looks. I once went to a fancy dress event as Quasimodo, but several Esmeraldas saw through the disguise quickly.
The Lilith and I danced, shared a few Margaritas, and then they positively insisted that I come back with them to their place. I sensed from the start of our relationship that I was the guinea pig in some kind of scheme concocted by the ladies. I was being probed, assessed and validated. I seemed to pass the secret tests as the girls increased their interest in me as the night progressed. There were too many knowing glances between them, whispers and near telepathic exchanges of information. I caught words like ‘Chosen’, and ‘he is definitely the one’ over the loud music. I was tempted to ask them bluntly what was going on, but I kept my paranoia to myself. Words like ‘slaughtered lamb’ sprang to mind, but I was too curious to get myself away from them.
The taxi ride to their place saw me sandwiched between the ladies who sat like bodyguards or kidnappers throughout. Occasionally, their hands brushed over my swelling cock and patted it approvingly. “Soon, soon”. Mary whispered greedily, as if not wanting the cabbie to hear.
I half expected them to live in a ruined castle in North Manchester, which would have been absurd. They actually owned a terraced house on a semi-cobbled street in the Charlestown district. The door didn’t creak. There was no Igor-like manservant to welcome us in. There were no thunderclaps to punctuate my arrival. It was a typical Goth girl house, ornamented with vampire movie figurines, and with walls decorated in posters of various musicians, and with shelves filled with books on the occult and horror literature. One title struck out at me right away, Victim Mine! By Mary Trevory. I hadn’t thought to ask the girls their professions. Mary was a horror story author. Janet, when I asked her now, proved to be a failed literature student who had undertaken a research paper on the phenomenally successful young author and her overnight commercial fame. I have to confess that I had never heard of Mary until now though.
Most of the books were modern, though there was one dusty old volume, called something like The Necromonicon, which the girls said they had found in a second hand gift shop. I was about to browse through its pages when Mary snatched it from me and took it out of the room as Janet French kissed me in what I took to be something of a deliberate distraction, without knowing why.
Janet had fallen in love with the author while staying with her to get insight into the writer’s mind. Her all too emotional proximity to her subject had got her thrown off her course and her project had not been finished. Janet now made her own clothes for the Goth culture market. Several of her garments in preparation and two sewing machines dominated the main living room, along with a plasma screen TV and a cluttered heap of horror movie DVD’s.
One other thing stood out in the otherwise ordinary environment – among the easily acquired mass produced commercial posters, there was a 19th century Post-Expressionist painting. It depicted a now ageing naked man, with wilting penis, surrounded by naked women who had all turned their backs on him, as if no longer caring for his advances now that he was effectively less desirable or virile.
“Like it?” Janet asked.
“It’s different, “ I said, finding the image rather sad and haunting.
Mary spoke, having returned without making her footsteps audible on the stairs. “It’s by Ronald Montroy. It’s called The Castrated Casanova. I bought it at an auction with my first royalties cheque.“
They offered me a drink. I settled on a cold beer. They drank vodka. I asked them when they were going to sacrifice me to Satan or drink my blood. They laughed and offered to share a bath with me instead.
I got naked. They stripped to their underwear. Janet had a black bra with words in red on each nipple cup – ‘Bitch’ on the left – ‘Witch’ on the right. Mary had a red bra with the same words in black on each breast, but with ‘Bitch’ on the right cup and ‘Witch’ on the left. I knew that they had left the bras on deliberately to show off some of Janet’s fashion work. I was impressed, and even more impressed when instead of removing the bras, the girls just pulled the cups down to expose their breasts, and invited me to feel them and express my approval.
They had replaced their bathtub with a large Jacuzzi, and we got in. We had considered filling it with water, but we were too turned on by each other to bother turning on the taps. The girls played at vampires around me. They argued over which one was Lilith that night. They decided that they both were in the end. They fought, but I took the blows. I was a pawn between two dominatrix queens. Each time one brought me close to climax, the other pulled me out of her partner to draw me into herself. I was a rag doll and a total slave and I have to admit that I loved every minute of it. They used me as the parcel in a pass the parcel game – seeing which one I was going to be inside when I finally came, while they kept me from coming as long as they possibly could.
The girls entwined themselves around each other and me like serpents. Janet’s legs wrapped round my waist and half way round Mary’s too. Mary pressed against my back with her hand partly into my anus and partly into her cunt. Janet’s thrusts against my dick helped to push Mary deeper into herself and against me too. Mary’s posture helped to keep Janet and I from slipping away from one another. It was short and potent sex. No man could avoid coming quickly like this. I erupted quickly into Mary, declaring her the winner of the game and then the girls switched sides, and I was soon doing exactly the same thing for Janet, as a consolation prize.
Behind me, as Janet licked my chest hair, I heard Mary moving some kind of glass container. I half expected that she had reached for her vodka, but a glance in the mirror showed that she had moved a little of the sperm that had spilt onto her thigh into a small pill bottle, preserving my seed as if planning on examining it under a microscope. I was about to turn to ask what was going on, but Janet bit into my shoulder and grinned, as she drew my hands against her breasts. I quickly forgot to challenge their strange behaviour.
I sank back, exhausted and worn down. I felt the water start to fill the tub, and the girls, now out of the Jacuzzi, soothed my shoulders and soaped me down, telling me to relax. I got so relaxed that I couldn’t remember going to bed with them naked on either side of me, but at some point I did.
The girls woke and went downstairs early. I was left to sleep in as long as I needed, and somehow, I really did need to. I wasn’t working, as it was now Saturday. I lazed and nodded off again, at which point a terrible dream hit me. I saw myself masturbating while thinking of Lilith, the vampire queen who was woman before Eve. She called to me – ‘Come, Ganymede – do not be afraid.’ As if on command, my sperm erupted from me in a gushing white torrent that flooded out, submerging the room, Lilith, and I were drowning, drowning, drowning… I woke in a hot flush, stifling a scream.
I got up and slipped into the bathroom. My dick was relaxed, and stepping into the hot shower, I woke it up, determined to check that I could still masturbate normally. I dreaded the effect of ejaculation imitating my dream, but I gave normal release, weaker than usual if anything for having made love to two amazing women all night. I calmed down; half-confident that it had just been a nightmare after all.
Janet prepared a light breakfast for us all, while Mary offered me a proposal for our next date. “We frequently go to a private club – a very intense fetish and BDSM bar called The Lust-Lounge. We loosely model it on the Hellfire Club, Sir Francis Dashwood’s notorious 18th century satanic debauchery society. There are lots of other Lilith wannabees there who would love to meet you. Care to come along a fortnight on Saturday?”
I was tempted to find some excuse to say no, but the girls fascinated me. Many recent dates had been with girls who had rushed me to give them orgasm quickly, and had become possessive and clingy. Janet & Mary seemed more relaxed and took their time in savouring my flesh. They had a tantric fascination for keeping men from orgasm for as long as possible. I found myself agreeing to go along despite my apprehension.
I was instructed to meet the girls at the Gothic singles club where I had met them, at around about 9.30 pm.
I left their house soon after breakfast, with hugs, and kisses by both girls and a final squeeze of my balls by Mary. It was a squeeze that seemed to tell me that they belonged to her now, rather than to me.
The week long gap before my next meeting with The Lilith girls and what was my date with my real terrible destiny passed slowly, beginning with a recurrence of the nightmare in which I drowned in my own semen.
My work suffered. I seemed restless and unable to keep still. Seeing the canvases and statues of me, I noticed that the keen eyed students picked up a sense of fear and apprehension in my eyes, though I failed to see it in the mirror.
To pass the time, I picked up a copy of Mary Trevory’s novel, Victim Mine! which was readily available in the shops. It told of a young novelist selling her soul to Succubae in return for inspiration, before gaining overnight success, and seducing her leading fans into cult-like reverence and imitation of her. She was a cannibal who devoured her fans or sacrificed them to her Succubae.
I expected good to persevere in the end and the narrator to face some Dorian Grey like comeuppance, but she remained triumphantly evil and immoral throughout.
I looked up the publisher’s author-biography. Mary Trevory had herself raised to fame overnight, with few previous writings to her name. I found myself wondering if her chief follower in the book was modelled on someone like Janet. More interesting was an Internet biography’s reference to her family history – her maiden name had been Montroy before her short-lived first marriage. I realized that Mary had been dishonest about the origins of the Castrated Casanova painting. It was a family heirloom – not an auction purchase. Her husband had left her, claiming that she believed the rubbish she wrote and kept praying to Satan and other demons. He had freaked out and fled. He had died in a mysterious fire some months later.
I looked up Montroy, the artist online, and found surprisingly few references to him. His shocking and uncompromisingly explicit images of sodomy, emasculation and castration had been seen as highly seditious and the Catholic Church had arrested him for heresy. While languishing in prison, awaiting a hearing, he had been attacked by fellow inmates. His testicles and buttocks had been severed and he had been choked to death with them. Copies of his paintings had later been systematically hunted down, and destroyed by order of the Vatican. Few if any were believed to still exist.
The reading and research kept me from sleeping and therefore kept the recurring nightmares away. I had one during a brief involuntary nap caused by sheer exhaustion in which Janet & Mary tugged and pulled at my dick and snapped off a tactical each, which they then devoured raw.
That last night before my fateful visit to the Lust Lounge, I found myself again slipping into sleep. Rashly, I tried to stay awake by watching a horror movie, The Wicker Man, which only fuelled my anxieties further. At least I was no virgin sacrifice like the doomed hero in that story.
The dream came as soon as my eyelids closed. Again, the writer and her loyalist supporter were pulling at my dick, and I was about to erupt in torrents once more, when a strange fat naked male figure grasping a wine bottle and a bunch of grapes appeared in their midst. The ladies shrieked and fled, like vampires confronted with a crucifix. . He smiled and whispered to me “The Lilith lie to you as they lie with you. There will still be love in your life after the events at the Lust Lounge. Put your faith in me and do as I say and you will be spared.”
I woke before he could tell me who he was or what he planned to say. If there was some clue in his mannerism and words, I had failed to comprehend it.
With hours to go before my trip to BDSM land, I looked up Lilith online. Lilith was, as I vaguely knew, the true first woman created before Adam. The Bible barely refers to or mentions her story at all, but some ancient Hebrew texts preserve the myths. Her independent mindedness and vitality made her a formidable woman, and Adam was unable to keep up with her needs. He was afraid of her and wanted more control in his relationship. Worse, every one of his sperm impregnated her and she gave birth to millions of children – each cursed by God as she herself was cast down and away to be replaced by Eve at Adam’s prayer of request. The Mother of all monsters became an immortal Succubae, draining the seed of men and struggling to feed and nurture her weak, and dying offspring. Hers was the eternal sorrow of mourning as news of her dying children reached her daily. The Old Testament Leviathan and Behemoth were said to be among her children. Despite the revisionist efforts of Biblical scholars to eradicate knowledge of her, Lilith was the subject of several powerful cults in the early Roman Catholic era. The Catholics responded to the cult much as the Romans had treated them – with persecution and massacre. Less organized than the Christian Martyrs, the sisters of Lilith were easily crushed or driven underground. They dared not give Lilith her own feast days so they hijacked and tried to revive the feast of Bacchus (The Roman name for Dionysus), trying to make the bachananalia their own. Unfortunately, the followers of Bacchus were reluctant to let their feast be taken over by the Mother of Monsters, so the Sisters Of Lilith found themselves facing new persecution – and the two fledgling cults seem to have caused their own mutually assured destruction when they ought to have united against their common foe – the Catholic fathers.
Bacchus was the God of wine, and madness – he represents hedonism, Bohemianism and excess, and also the inevitable consequences of such indulgences. I had been enjoying that which he represented for so long without any acknowledgement of his name, I felt guilty. The websites about him offered links to pictorial art representations of him – Somehow I knew before I clicked on them that I would see pictures of the man who had whispered to me in my dream the night before. Worse, his feasts of old were traditionally held on March 16th – the very date on which I was to go to the Lust Lounge.
I was astonished and disturbed by my reading. It was all-fascinating, but I was scared that I found any of this mythology relevant to my own life and predicament, if indeed I had a predicament. I was only invited to an orgy when all was said and done. I had never been religious, though mythical reference and analogies had followed me all my life. I had been left convinced that my beauty was in some way preordained and that some great monumental event was ahead of me. I sensed strongly that that my fate would present itself at the Lust Lounge, and now was time for me to prepare myself for my journey there.
I got to the singles bar a few minutes before our rendezvous time of 8 PM, and calmed my nerves with a G & T. I wore the same dark jeans and black Tee shirt I had worn the previous week. Unusually, none of the many beautiful girls in the bar seemed to notice me, let alone flirt with me. I would normally have been the centre of attention by now. I thought of the painting of poor castrated Casanova again. I imagined my face taking the place of his own.
My disturbing reverie was soon interrupted. Janet walked in, and straight towards me. She wore a slinky black cat suit. She snatched up my Gin & tonic and gulped it down in one. “The taxi awaits. Mary is sitting in the back. Join us now.”
It was the tone of a true dominatrix in the making. I shrugged and followed. I hoped regulars in the bar would notice my presence in the company of the sex-bomb. It might help the police investigation if my mangled body was found later. Part of me wanted to run like Hell, but on the whole I wanted the strange, sinister situation to come to an end. In fact, my adventures were only beginning. .
We got into the taxi with me sandwiched between the identically dressed girls who acted like silent arresting officers.
“Shouldn’t you blindfold me so I can’t divulge the location of your secret base?” I asked half-jokingly. Janet shook her head. “What would be the point?” she asked in all seriousness. I didn’t respond to that. I seriously wondered if my death would follow whatever the ladies intended to do to me.
The deja-vu taxi ride took us close to Mary’s house, and then about three miles North of it to an abandoned crumbling church. There were several cars and a few motorbikes parked in the grounds, and on the overgrown cemetery grass.
St. Jude’s looked like an ancient crumbling Saxon church. And it was named after the patron saint of lost causes. In fact, its history was more modern. Mary told me about it.
“It was raised in the 1920’s. It was a fine local parish church until the war. In 1940, during an air raid at the height of the Blitz, an ARP warden spotted some lights shining in the church. He rushed in to warn them about the strict blackout rules. He stumbled into a satanic black mass – there were pentagrams, swastikas and two slaughtered goats. He got help and arrests were made. The ringleaders were hanged as Fifth Columnist spies. The church was closed in disgrace over the scandal. It just got left to rot. The grounds slowly encroached and reclaimed much of the stonework as you can see. The grounds remained quite lovely, and many people came here for romantic picnics with their lovers. In the 1990’s the church became a place to hold wild rave parties and sell ecstasy tabs. By 2003, the Sisters Of Lilith had taken over. I bought the church and turned it into the Lust Lounge.”
She owned the place. Wow!
We got out of the taxi. I paid the fare, and we walked over the gravel path and inside through the dark arched entrance.
I expected to see a wretched cobweb strewn crypt, full of dust, detritus, rats and spiders, with a few skeletons on display. Instead I was presented with a well-lit mock-marble palatial hall. Old pillars had been wrapped in cloth dyed in the colours of Romanesque columns, - It was like seeing a ballroom disguised as the venue for a toga party. I had arrived at a pretend Roman Villa. Mary and her Lilith cult followers had undoubtedly gone to a lot of trouble to create such an effect. It seemed tacky, but practical. Candles provided much of the lighting.
Two things stood out for inescapable attention. The first was the large painted canvas beside the entrance chamber – and from its similar style to that of The Castration of Casanova, I could tell that it was by the same artist and Mary’s ancestor – Ronald Montroy.
Mary smiled. “You recognise it. Good. It’s called The Blood Of Chronos. – An emasculated God, seeping blood from his ruptured genitals across the gulfs of space – as the torrent swept across the canvas, it becomes planets and stars and solar systems. Zeus seems to be swallowing the severed member of his own father, while the other gods look down on the forming universe. An hourglass gives suggestion that when Chronos’s blood finally runs out and he has bled to death, time itself will end. “
I gulped. The Lilith were obsessed with castration art. I wondered if I’d be going home with my testicles in a doggy bag, if I was allowed out at all.
The other inescapable sight was the orgy that had already begun well before my arrival. The floor was a sea of writhing, mostly naked human flesh. People rolled over and into each other and many seemed to be covered in baby oil.
By the far walls, many fat balding naked men stood watching, and grinning. My initial thought was of Bacchus, but then I noticed that the men had no genitals. Bacchus was always depicted as spectacularly well endowed. These men simply had smooth pelvic areas, like children’s action dolls. They seemed like crude parodies of Bacchus. I suspected that given the rivalry between Lilith and Bacchus, the look was a deliberate crude parody of the Wine-God.
“Where the fuck did you get eunuchs?” I asked.
Mary laughed. “You’d be surprised how many men get turned on by voluntarily becoming eunuchs even in this day and age.”
“That’s not what you plan to do to me is it?”
Janet giggled. “Oh no! We need your meat and two veg intact.”
“What exactly do you plan to do with me?”
My question was ignored. Mary pointed to the orgy. “Take your clothes off and join in if you like.”
I was surprised. “May I?”
Janet nodded. “Yes, but don’t come. We need you fully charged up for us shortly. Pull away from anyone who brings you close to ejaculation. The antics in my bathroom last weekend were a test to see if you could prolong the time before erupting, so I know you can keep it all in for me. Do that now. Promise us that you can and will.”
I promised, and the ladies pulled away my clothes. Mary took my pants and shoes and socks. Janet drew my shirt over my head.
“Go on in, big boy,” Mary said, as they turned to walk off to a side room.
“Aren’t you joining me?”
Janet shrugged. “Not yet. We have work to do, preparing the grand finale. You’ll be summoned shortly. Meanwhile, relax. Have fun.”
“But don’t cum,” Mary added, with more than a hint of threatening aggression.
I stepped gingerly into the writhing maelstrom of bodies, concerned about stepping on someone if I moved too quickly. I had barely gone a few feet when someone grabbed my ankles and pulled me down beside herself. My first kiss aimed to her lips missed when a buttock hit my shoulder blades, but the girl pulled me closer in towards herself and we got it right.
The girl grabbed for my balls, and I realized for the first time how erect I was – at this rate not coming was going to be impossible. I was wondering what to do. Instinctively, drawing inspiration almost from nowhere, I whispered to her harshly, “Leave those alone. Mary’s orders.”
The girl quickly let go. “You’re him. You’re the one. Oh, you lucky bastard.“
“Care to share any clues about what’s in store for me?”
“I can’t, “ she said. “Mary’s orders.”
Someone licked my feet. Hands tweaked the hairs on my chest. Female thighs came down on either shoulder, owned by the woman drawing her cunt close to docking with my tongue, but before we engaged, other admirers pulled her away to join in some entertainment or other in the madding fornicating crowd.
I felt something sliding against and into my backside. A jet of warm liquid erupted into me. I couldn’t come, but others could come in and on me. I turned to see who had taken me, but it was impossible to tell with so many people enjoying themselves in close proximity to me.
A girl began to bite hungrily at my nipples, sucking almost as if she expected to milk me. A eunuch aqua-glided over the people around us, swimming effortlessly between the bodies and nudged her aside.
“Easy tigress – save some for the rest of us.”
He took her place in my arms, mumbling something about a gentleman’s excuse me.
“You’re joining in the orgy?” I asked, incredulous. Most of the eunuchs stayed in the sidelines acting as referees and in some cases, spraying the baby oil from fire extinguisher canisters, lubricating and cooling down the revellers. I was soaked too, and people slithered over me as if we were all made of soap.
The eunuch grinned. “Why not? My dick has gone but the rest of me still feels.“
I looked at the smooth, hair-free, scar free plain of flesh between his thighs. I even felt compelled to touch him there. I felt the blood pounding against the mound, blood that would normally have filled the penis muscle and given the man one Hell of an erection.
“The blood remembers,” he said, and then I found myself holding his cock – a cock that hadn’t existed seconds before.
I let go, as if it was a poisonous snake. The eunuch laughed. “Don’t be afraid,” he whispered. “As I told you before, you will love again. Oh, yes. That was I talking to you in your dreams. I am here to protect you.”
“No, don’t fuck. The Lilith really do need your sperm.”
“So why don’t I just empty it all out here? I can’t contain myself much longer anyway.”
“Don’t empty out whatever you do, or you will die.”
“They’d really kill me?”
“Yes, they would, and they intend to destroy you, but if you ejaculate now, I will kill you myself. Go ahead with their instructions. I will be there to protect you. As another God you may have heard of might say, have a little faith, baby.”
“You are the most beautiful man in the World, David – besides; you were conceived here in this church.”
“Your mother and father came in here to shelter from a storm that blew up on an apparently clear day. They had no idea that Mary and her minions had cast spells to enchant the spot on which they ended up making love. The storm itself was her doing. Your destiny was established the very second you were created that day.”
So many shocking revelations were hitting me at once that I could barely think. I was lost and disorientated in the maelstrom of writhing bodies, buffeted by everyone around me. Mary was much older than she looked and she had caused the distress that led to my Mum’s insanity. I would kill the witch if I got the chance.
I questioned the eunuch’s claims. “She’d have to be about fifty now.”
“Mary is about seven hundred and fifty years old.”
“Seven hundred and fifty?”
“Oh yes. Mary wasn’t descended from Montroy – she was his immediate daughter. Her mother was a Succubus. Janet was her earliest convert.”
“And a eunuch with a dick who talks to you in your dreams is perfectly possible is it?”
“Wrong God, David. Wrong God.”
A gong sounded – the sort that announces dinner is served in some country mansions. There were groans and moans and people around us started to stand up.
“The warm up orgy is over, “ Bacchus said, helping me to my feet. We stood quietly, virtually at attention, awaiting further instructions. Janet now walked into the hall – she was totally naked.
“Bring the Ganymede forward,” she said. “The rest of you men may leave us now. I hope you enjoyed yourselves and thank you for coming. “
The men started to head off to find their clothes. The eunuch who was Bacchus stepped forward, beckoning me to follow. All trace of his magnificent genitalia had vanished again. The men and women around us stepped back to allow us an easy path to the side alcove where Janet waited for us. We followed her through a short gloomy, cold corridor to a room with an old oak door. The door slid open and we went inside. It was only now that I realized that most, if not all of the fifty still naked women who had been at the orgy had silently followed us. The only men were the eunuch and myself.
The door closed behind us. Janet locked it.
After the well-lit orgy room, the darkness of a more basic BDSM chamber was more than a little disturbing.
Candles were lit, and the room brightened enough to allow me see the nature of my destiny. The floor was polished stone, marked with a wide circle that filled most of the room. Lines radiated out from a central pentagram, on which Mary stood naked. The lines ran to fifty small blood red circles and the women approached these circles to take their places standing on them. Janet moved last of all, taking a place on a single slightly larger circle.
Mary stood naked and entranced in the centre, like a medium conducting a séance as the eunuch followed her instructions. Above us, tied to the ceiling by ropes, there was a black leather hammock like cradle. The Eunuch lowered it, almost to the floor and instructed me to get in, lying face down, with my throbbing cock poking through the hole at its centre.
Getting into the still swaying rig was tricky, and though every instinct told me to refuse, I did it. I lay flat out, and felt my engorged cock slip through the hole. My head stuck out one end allowing me to see what went on, and my bare feet stuck out of the back. I was barely in when the eunuch winched me up so I was about five feet above the ground.
I wondered what nature my doom would take. I expected Mary to produce a blade, and cut my balls off and bathe in my blood as I died.
The girls remained ominously silent, and for a moment, so did Mary. The Eunuch was clearly there merely to assist with apparatus and maintain crowd control if needed. He stood quietly to one side of the circle now, as if his work was done. Mary clearly had no idea that he was Bacchus incarnate. In hiring his caricatures, she had unwittingly allowed him to come along to deal with her personally. I found myself silently praying to him – he was my only hope of safety in all this diabolical madness.
After a moment, Mary began to recite something in what sounded like cod-Latin or gibberish. I knew that I was listening to some kind of ancient witchcraft spell. She knew it by heart. She had no books or papers before her.
The epic prayer to dark forces ended, and the girls collectively yelled ‘So Mote it be.’ Mary now grabbed my cock and used it to set me swinging like a pendulum out from the inner to the outer circle. I swung out towards a girl standing close to Janet, who reached up and touched my dick gently with her fingertips, before licking her fingers with her mouth. She sat down, whispering, “I am Lilith,” and spread her legs, exposing her cunt to the centre of the circle, where Mary still stood. Pushed back, I came again to the centre, where Mary used my dick to once more push me to the rim of the circle, where another girl touched my dick lightly, and then sat down in the same posture as the first girl. Again, the words, “I am Lilith,” were whispered. One by one, the girls did this as I swung back and forward, guided by Mary from the centre. At no stage did I miss my target. No girl failed to catch me. It was as if some supernatural force guided my trajectory – I felt like the glass on an Ouija board.
Soon, the regular touches to my already highly excited dick set my juices flowing and I knew that I would have to come very soon. Resistance was now impossible. There were few girls left standing – in fact, there were only Janet and Mary. Janet seemed to grab my dick harder and longer than any girl had before her and she finally reluctantly pushed me back towards Mary and sat down with her legs spread out. .
Mary began to lie back in the circle now, as I approached. The cradle drew to a halt right above her. My dick was pointing down directly above her open cunt, like a Damoclean sword, and now I cold resist no longer. I came.
It was as violent but not as gushing as the ejaculations in my dreams. The fluids streamed out of me. By rights, they should have soaked all over Mary alone. Only a modest stream seeped down into her. Most of the semen defied gravity and spread out, following the ley-lines of the circle, to penetrate the open cunts of every woman in the circle at once. I felt them all – I felt as if I was actually making love to them rather than sending my semen across such a distance – I was inside each and every girl, and felt their pussies undulating and taking me in. Their reactions were those of women in deep orgasm.
Only Mary and Janet seemed to be in different states of mind – they screamed as if being burnt, or in sheer unadulterated terror. As the women’s orgasms abated around them and the girls lay back in tranquillising bliss, as if they had been partly anaesthetized I watched the Witch Queen and her High Priestess stand and shake and tremble violently. Something was clearly going hideously wrong for them.
I looked and saw Mary literally disintegrate, and convulse as if she was touching high voltage cables. Her eyes melted. Her torso collapsed, stoved in by some unseen force and her head imploded like bubble rap in the hands of a geek. Within a minute she was a heap of biomes on the floor. I looked to my left and saw a similar skeleton – Janet had shared her friend’s terrible fate. The other girls watched in terror, shrieked and collectively fled from the room.
“What happened?” I asked of Bacchus who watched the whole thing as if it was happening on a movie screen for his entertainment. .
“They received the death they planned for you. The Lilith was impregnated but I corrupted your sperm. Traces of my sperm were still dripping on the end of your cock. I poisoned them with my seed. Their centuries caught them up quickly. “
“What about the other women? Are they safe?”
“Safe and pregnant, all fifty of them, but the children of the Lilith carry a terrible curse.”
“What have you done?”
“Lilith hopes to spread more monsters throughout the human race, but her sons will only get to make love once before they die. Think of it like the sting of the bee – once fired, the bee dies along with its prey, though with Lilith’s bees, the women impregnated will not be harmed. They will carry another generation of boys doomed to perish after their only chance to make love. I will tell them of that in their dreams before they get sex – they must choose between celibacy and a pleasure that will lead to rapid painful death. “
I was angry. I grabbed the eunuch by the throat. “They are my children. “
Bacchus laughed and advised me to look at my hand. I did. It was wrinkled and calloused. It was a middle-aged man’s hand. I let go of the god’s throat and felt my face. It was no longer smooth and unblemished. I even had traces of a beard.
“What have you done to me?”
“You did this to yourself – it is life that takes its toll on us. You were preserved from the ravages of time by Mary’s enchantments, but the enchantments are broken. That which killed Mary has aged you. “
“I’m old and ugly?”
“No! Don’t be so vain. You look like an ordinary middle-aged man who has over-indulged in wine, women and song. You will still be loved, as I promised. Here, let me show you a mirror.”
Bacchus turned into a large mirror. I saw little of its ornate frame – I was too focussed on my reflection – I had a slight beer gut, and a receding hairline. My cock seemed mercifully as strong as ever given the amount of energy I had just released.
The mirror vanished and Bacchus returned. “Did you tell anyone you were coming here?” he asked.
I shook my head.
“Good. I thought not. Find your clothes and leave without returning. When you have left I will burn this place to the ground. Mary’s house will also be destroyed tonight. You will probably never see or hear from me again, but pray to me as you dine, drink and fuck, won’t you? ”
Before I could answer, he disappeared. In the time it takes to blink, he had simply gone.
* * *
I got dressed and found a taxi passing by on the road close to the church grounds. I went home. I spent the weekend in a fit of depression, wondering what to do with my life from now on. I wanked a few times, to check I still could without pouring out several gallons of semen. There was nothing wrong in that sense.
I phoned in sick to the art department and saw my Doctor to check that I was Ok. He was the first man who knew me to see me since I had aged. He was naturally astonished. I was worried that I might make medical history, and draw attention to myself, but he attributed my change of physique to the ravages of the flu. He advised me to stay off work for a few weeks. I was happy to oblige. I was wondering if I would ever be allowed to work again, given the nature of my job.
Financially, I gained some security by selling the Blood Of Chronos canvas I had torn from its frame before leaving St. Jude’s. I was not going to leave that to burn. It went on E-Bay for £1,000’s. Sadly, the companion painting at Mary’s house probably died in the fire there.
I did lose a lot of my freelance modelling and film work jobs due to my radical change of appearance, but the main university assignments kept going. Their code of political correctness prevented them discriminating against a change of appearance that was technically speaking, a disability.
The artists came to me to ask what had happened. I knew I would never have old friends approaching me with ‘haven’t seen you for a while, but you haven’t changed a bit.’ I told them the influenza story. They were full of genuine commiseration.
The paintings and sculptures made of me now reflected my tragedy – a youth who’s looks had faded suddenly. I could see the dreamy look in the eyes of girls who lamented not getting to date me before the rot set in.
I seriously wondered if I would get to date a girl again or ever make love once more. Bacchus had promised me that I would. He spoke the truth. There was a new girl in class, who seemed to like me for who I was, rather than for who I had been. She had raven hair down to her shoulders and her eyes stared at me in intense curiosity and a hint of pity. She knew that something unusual had occurred in my life – something possibly awful, and she seemed to admire me for coming through it OK, and to appreciate the air of mystery that surrounded me.
Shyly, I invited her for a drink after lessons. She accepted. I took her to a quiet bar and we hit it off. Our lovemaking was gentle rather than tempestuous. We are going steady now. Her name is Lillian. Thank you Bacchus.
* * *
I should have guessed the significance of that name right away – Lily, Lillian, Lilith. It was only a week or so into our increasingly passionate relationship when she asked me when I was going to start thinking about how to protect my sons that I realized it really was her.
“Were you among the girls in that room that night?”
“No, but I was watching from afar. The cult of Lilith did not have my blessing. There are many sects that act in my name. None but you know the real me.”
“But you left it to Bacchus to stop them. Why didn’t you intervene?”
“He had the situation under control. I saw no reason to interfere. Now however, his cruel punishment of my unborn stepchildren is a little harsh. I’ll have to make sure the boys grow up wisely I’ll probably need your help, as you are the father. Are you with me?”
“Will Bacchus approve?”
“No. We’ll deal with him if we have to. Are you with me?”
I found myself agreeing to help her.
“Good,” she said, kissing me full on the lips. “Such support deserves a reward. Look in the mirror.”
I went to my bedroom mirror and saw that my good, Ganymede looks had returned. I laughed and cried at the same time.
“Now come to bed and fuck me,” Lillian commanded and I didn’t need asking twice.
Copyright 1996 and on, Erotica Readers Association, Inc.
By Riccardo Berra
The Girl with Two Lovers
By Remittance Girl
Fixed in Amber
I Waited for You...
The Central Registry
The Other Side
The River Mother
Things Better Left Unsaid
By Richard V Raiment
Ghosts of Christmas Past
Recalled to Life
By Robert Buckley
A Fragile Desire
A Weekend in Queens..
Adam and Eve on a Raft
An Unconventional Friendship
Brotherhood Of The ...
Close to Hand
Coins For The Ferryman
Dead Man's Switch
Does Immortality come with a Pension?
Excess Of Light
Making Her Late For...
Seeing Is Believing
Smells Like Money
The Angel of Loneliness
The Dog Park
The Great Sin
They Need Me
You Get What You Pay For
You're the Only One
By Robert GSK
By Rose B. Thorny
Only When It Rains
Power and Glory
The Thing Under the...
The Principal of the Thing
By Sidney Durham
I'm Only Shaving!
Junk Yard Goddess
Sometimes I Can ...
Speaking of Escher
The Road Not Taken
By Tulsa Brown
Debt of Honor
Flesh On A Woman
Half Moon Girl
By Valentine Bonnaire
Bing Cherry Silk
Have a Nice Day
Once Upon A Time . . .
Yellow, like the daffodils
By William Dean
A Hand in the Bush
Buy Me Something
Forest for the Trees
Kiss Me And Then...
Stranger in the Bonfire
by A.F. Waddell
A Filing Fling
by Addison Long
Menage A Cart
by Adhara Law
by Alana James
Torn in Two
by Alicia Night Orchid
by Angela Caperton
by BJ Franklin
by Beth Vox
Frostbite the Ice Pimp
by Chuck Lovepoe
The Accidental Fetish
So Much in Common
by Daphne Dubonet
by Delores Swallows
The Hand & I.
by G. Gregory
The Puss Hater
by Inna Spice
One for the Road
by J. Corvo
by J.D. Coltrane
Naked Over New York
by J.Z. Sharpe
The Chocolate Wife
by James Robert Sands
by Jamie Smithe
by Jean Roberta
Caitlin Comes Clean
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Something To Make...
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Melanie and Jay Go...
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It's Lovely. It's Horrible.
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by Kaye Heche
A Husband's Lesson
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Better Than a Blow...
by Lauren Mills
Page 12 - No. F
In The Name Of...
by Michael Michele
by Nettie Kestler
The Wounded Healer
by Nicholas M.
by Nick Santa Rosa
by P. E. Brink
by Riccardo Berra
The Right Man
by Sam Thorne
Newly Reformed Woman...
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by Sybil Rush
by Teresa Lamai
by Teresa Wymore
Shadows of De La Rosa
by Tori Diaz