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There Aint No Justice 133
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| There Ain't No Justice |
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| #133 |
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- The God -
by Arifel
This, the latest in a succession of places to live; a library. An
ex-library, to be more precise; an ex-primary school's children's
library, to be exact. After I'd dusted it out and stacked the
disassembled shelves in one corner, it looked quite presentable.
I was lucky to get this place; after the school had closed, the main
rooms were being rented out to clubs, the tiny gymnasium to sports
groups; the library was the only room that wasn't laid out for
meetings. The caretaker had been glad to hand the place over to me
for fifty dollars a fortnight. Officially, he wasn't supposed to do
this; the place wasn't zoned as residential, but he wasn't about to
complain, being a hundred bucks a month richer, and no-one noticed
that I was getting free power from the school's main supply, and
(until someone started asking questions), three free phone lines. In
the dead of night, I'd shifted a refrigerator in; there was an
octagonal pit that had been a kind of class-reading area, which I'd
filled with mattresses, pillows, cushions, blankets and continental
quilts. It served as a bed. The place no longer smelled of dust and
disuse.
I'd arranged candles on nearly every horizontal surface, and late at
night, I'd light them all and turn off the overhead fluoros. It gave
the place a medaeval atmosphere, like some old monastery. I walked
over to the centre of the room where I'd ripped up some of the old
carpet, revealing a patch of concrete about six metres across. Faint
blue chalk marks drawn on the rough grey surface marked out the
arcane symbol I'd found in the book, a rotten old almanac - one of
many that Jerry had looted from the Vatican library shortly before
he'd burned it to the ground. I knew why he'd given it to me; he
knew that I was the only one game to try the summoning detailed
within.
For all that the work had been written in german-flavoured latin, I
couldn't tell which particular faith had inspired this nameless
book. I was reasonably certain it wasn't Hebraic or Cathar or
Waldensian or Egyptian; it wasn't Celtic or Arabic or Druidic,
although some of the illustrations contained a few elements of the
Horned God. I was thankful for the translations and annotations; I
could recognise perhaps one word in ten of the original.
I put on the thick metal-studded collar which had been anointed with
musk oils; a thick D-ring at the back attached to a loop of leather
with a two-foot length of metal chain. I started the CD player:
`Hybrid', by Brooks, Lanois and Eno, a sensual, rhythmic piece with a
vaguely eastern air; then I arranged the incense at the quarters,
sprinkled the powder in the burner and stood back as the grey smoke
mushroomed out across the ceiling. It smelled rank, like animal fur
after a rainstorm, simultaneously repellent and oddly seductive. I
stood at the centre of the cleared space, hefted the one-pound bag of
pure heroin and hacked a hole in the bottom with the athame. The
white powder began falling to the floor in a three-hundred-dollar-
a-gram dust storm. I grounded, centred, cleared my mind then filled
my consciousness with the note, a bass F-sharp and began tracing out
the symbol in heroin.
Once it was complete, I went over the pattern again and again until
the bag was empty, then tossed it aside. I took off my loose robe
(the cold metal chain brushing against my nipples), went to the
centre of the roughly elliptical form, raised the athame and (I
always felt embarassed about this - what I imagined as the
"performance-art" aspect of ceremonial magick) recalled the words.
This was something of an experiment, really; the scribe who'd made
the notes in the original book had mentioned that the effect was the
same no matter what they chanted, as long as they said it with
feeling. In keeping with the spirit of the original text, I went for
a german invocation, using the words I'd first heard Blixa Bargeld
declaiming at the Old Greek Theatre:
Meint Ihr Nicht:
wir koennten untershcrieben
Auf das und eins biz zwei prozent gehoeren
Und tausende uns hoerig sind;
I couldn't be sure if I had all the words correct, but, as the book
said, it was the feeling rather than the text, and I'd found an odd
fascination with the power in that invocation. Belatedly, I thought
about the sense of the words, and realised that they might be
appropriate after all.
Very quickly, I felt it: the air was charged as if lightning was
about to strike. I continued with the invocation, the words ringing
out proudly in the silence. The air thickened as if someone had
turned on an array of fog machines; I finished the speech, the
gutteral German syllables seeming to spark off my back teeth:
... nur noch kleine kriese ziehen.
Wir Koennten, aber -
There was a pause, a silence distrubed only by a faint crackling
sound coming from the incense burner; then a hand fell on my
shoulder, a hand the size of a dinner plate. I turned in that
direction, steeling myself for the sight of what I'd summoned...
It wasn't Cernunnos, but it may as well have been. He was well over
two metres tall, muscular, broad-shouldered, carbon-black hair
gathered in a ponytail over one shoulder a contrast to his pale skin.
It was bound by a silver ring which was the only item of clothing he
wore; his features stern, regal, the attitude of a king, or a God.
Awed, I fell to my knees before him, which conveniently brought my
face level with his crotch. The book had made mention of a demand
for sexual favours, but using typically obscure latin
circumlocutions, so that it wasn't clear exactly what price this
summoning would exact. He was obviously used to being paid homage,
however; he smiled down at me tolerantly and brushed my face with his
fingers as if acknowledging my worship. I became aware of the smell
of his genitals, an intensified version of the scent from the
brazier; it reminded me of deep forest air, of wet ground after a
storm. It made my heart race.
He spoke, then; soft bass words that sounded, to my untrained ear,
like Welsh. A question; all I could do was peer up at him
apologetically. He glanced around the room, taking in the CD player,
the dead fluoro lights, the modern bookshelves and furniture, then
smiled down at me again. I felt a surge of warmth every time his
attention was turned to me, like having a spotlight turned on you,
like the smile of someone you love. To my surprise, he kneeled
(still towering over me) and, his hands going under my arms he lifted
me up, drew me closer to him, the warmth of his body radiating
through me, dark eyes glittering in the candle-light, his lips
meeting mine, his arms wrapped around me, their irresistable strength
evident, enfolding me in his heat, my hands barely able to reach
around and trace the subtle curves of his muscular back, down to his
hips, over his corded thighs and around to where his penis was
dangling almost to the floor. Boldly, I grasped it where it met his
body in a thatch of unusually soft hair, squeezed gently; I felt his
lips on mine smile, and I felt that incredible warmth again, almost
like a reward. I squeezed again and felt the shaft swell, rising to
press against my thigh. I squeezed harder, sliding my hand up and
down the length (my God, I thought - Wilson was right about
ithyphallic Gods! He would have to be at least fifteen inches long,
erect) while he kissed me, slowly forcing me over until I fell back,
this incredible being kneeling over me, looking down with what seemed
like genuine affection; intensified by whatever magickal influence he
had, it was like rising on a surge of warm air. My head fell back;
my chest rose as I inhaled his scent. I wanted to keep breathing in
until I burst.
The insistent pressure of his growing erection against my side
reminded me of what I was supposed to be doing here; as subserviently
as I could, I pushed his arm out of the way, rolled from underneath
and led him over to the octagonal bed area. He sat on the uppermost
step while I kneeled between his legs and worshipped his phallus, the
body of it as large as my forearm, barely able to fit the head in my
mouth. I wrapped my hands around the base, squeezed and licked along
the underside up to the head, kissed the end, slipped it between my
lips and sucked gently. I ran my hands lovingly up and down its
length, squeezing it between the open palms of my hands, gently
grasped his testicles, carefully tugged his scrotum downward; felt
him swell in me, forcing my tongue flat against my mouth, my lips
straining to hold him. With care I could take about half his length;
yet holding onto the base and sliding my lips over the end, licking
and sucking desperately didn't satisfy him. After a while I sensed
his growing impatience, something I didn't want to be responsible for
causing. I wasn't pleasing him. There was only one thing to do, and
I chose it despite the thought that it would most likely kill me. I
carefully extricated the end of his erection from my mouth; stroking
him with one hand, I reached out and found a flask of massage oil
with the other; then, repressing my fear, I turned and knelt before
him, my feet angled apart.
He took the flask from me and I felt a trickle of cold liquid on the
small of my back, running down between my buttocks. He traced its
path with his finger, following it down, rubbing the tight knot of
my anus with his knuckle, circling it then pressing his index finger
against it, gently opening me. Lubricated by the oil, his finger
slid in easily, rotating to press downward, bending to widen the
entrance, allowing his thumb and a second finger to join the first;
he picked up the end of my chain with his other hand, looping it
around his wrist, one finger through the D-ring, holding me up before
him. He probed me with care, gently fucking me and adding more
lubricant until he felt that I was ready; he withdrew his fingers and
pressed the head of his penis up against me, forcing a fraction of
the end in, then pulled out, giving me time to accommodate his
massive form. I recalled it as it had been a few minutes ago, in my
mouth; the channel along the underside as thick as my thumb, bulging
veins snaking out of his pubic hair, wreathing the shaft like vines
around a Doric column; the flanges of the head sharply defined when I
forced the foreskin back with my lips. When I'd grabbed the base and
squeezed, it had swollen until it was as big as my clenched fist, and
now he was forcing it inside me, one inch at a time.
Each short thrust brought me to the very limit of what I thought I
could take, and yet he continued, stretching me painfully. I
imagined my anus distended like my lips had been previously; then he
began fucking me with longer strokes, adding copious amounts of
massage oil to ease the way and tugging my head back with the chain.
I didn't think I was ready, but he grabbed my hip and increased the
length of his strokes until he forced the entrance and in one burning
rush, slid the head into me. I gasped with shock and relief, my ass
contracting over the relatively narrower shaft behind the head.
With one arm under mine he half-lifted me from the mattress until I
was lying against his body, his thighs bracing me on either side;
arching my back in ecstacy, I reached behind and felt at least six
inches of bulging erection still waiting to be inserted, which he did
with a cruel lack of haste, holding me above him, allowing me down to
be impaled on his shaft. I felt entirely ineffectual; a toy, my
right leg dangling to one side as he slowly fucked me, pushing
further in each time until I felt the huge head of his cock pressing
against the entrance to my colon and my ass was stretched around the
base, which felt as wide as a lamp-post. He sat me down in his lap
and gripped my own erection, holding it still in his massive fist,
not jerking me, just holding me and giving the occasional squeeze.
I could feel something building, like before, magick potential being
raised; I wriggled from side to side, aware that it was stimulating
him, bringing him closer to whatever climax was coming. He held my
painfully engorged erection in one hand and held the other - chain
looped around his wrist - flat to my chest, pressing me against him.
I could feel premonitory twitches in his thighs, his chest pushing
against my back as his breathing grew deeper, his penis swelling even
larger (I imagined it forcing the bones of my pelvis apart); then he
started lifting and dropping me again, in time with his breathing,
which was growing faster. I tried to squeeze on the down-strokes;
the twitching in his thighs grew more pronounced, he pushed me up,
letting go of my erection; I fell forward on my hands and knees and
suddenly, I found myself wondering: what the hell was I doing? Just
as quickly, the sheer outrageousness of the situation crystallised
around me, like a collapsing building falling down over me: I was on
all fours in an abandoned library, being fucked by a God. My one act
of arrogance had been in daring to summon Him like a servant; now, I
was paying the price of that arrogance by serving him without
question.
He was racing towards climax now, pulling back until the head of his
erection tugged at my ass, then shoving forward, pressing me into
the mattress; back and forth, dragging me with him helplessly. The
strokes slowed with a kind of inevitable fatalism, almost a
desperate kind of last-ditch attempt to hold on for a few seconds
more; I imagined that I could feel each vein as it slid into my ass.
Each time he thrust, his cock pressed up against me inside and my own
erection shuddered and swelled.
For a brief moment I crouched there with his cock shoved all the way
inside me, his balls slapping against the back of my thighs; there
was a momentary silence, then I felt him jerk and spasm within me. He
threw his head back and - thankfully, he didn't shout; I think it
would have burst my eardrums - he gave a long, bass moan of ecstacy
as he came. My own climax was a minor explosion in comparison, a
building knocked down by the shock-wave he'd generated. I could feel
pulses of fluid as they coursed up the channel along the underside of
his shaft, into me; I imagined him pumping me full -
His semen felt warm, then hot, and then it was burning me. Having
done this before (albeit with humans), I was used to a degree of
discomfort; but this was entirely different. It was as if he was
pumping me full of liquid fire, a kind of energy that humankind
wasn't designed to accept; yet with his firm hold on my collar I had
no choice but kneel before him and accept it, coursing into my body,
seeking out every crevice and cranny, flowing through me, suffusing
me. I imagined beams of light coming out of my eyes, molten metal
dripping from the end of my own cock.
I was distantly aware of him pulling out of me, a sharp twinge of
pleasureable pain as his head popped out and hot liquid pouring out
of my distended ass as I lay there, shaking. He moved around to my
side and cradled my head in his lap, murmuring words of sympathy in
that odd-sounding language, my chain still held in his huge hand.
Despite my overwhelmed state, I still wanted him; my hand reached
out to touch his still-hard cock, bending it towards my mouth,
thirsty for more of the energy he'd given me. He kneeled before me
and allowed me to suck him again, trembling hands massaging his
magnificent tool, feeling the energy coiling within, feeling it grow
almost too hot to touch; the head swelling to the point where it was
trapped behind my teeth and pushing hard against the roof of my
mouth. This time he helped me, grasping the base and forcing more
blood into it, my relatively small hands tugging and squeezing next
to his, but it wasn't until I dared reach down, encircle his scrotum
with thumb and forefinger and tug down hard that he came again, the
torrent of blinding white energy filling my mouth. I hung on
desperately, drinking the hot fluid as it came, sucking hard until he
was drained and my chest and throat were a glass-thin crucible filled
with the God's love and light. Just before I collapsed, I felt him
let go of my chain.
After a few minutes, I felt that I could move again, my body shaking,
my arms unable to support my weight. I rolled onto my side and
gazing up at his contented expression, a deity who had been
worshipped as he wanted. He stroked my face again, bent down to kiss
me and I lost consciousness, fading into a deliciously warm darkness
with a soft glow within and the worn-out feeling of having been well
and truly fucked. My last coherent thought before I sank into sleep
was, `What DO people see in Christianity?'
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