Note: This story has been previously published on the Nifty Archives.
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To bow. To worship. To breed. These are the notes of his symphony, his soul's hunger.
His eyes dart from body to body, evaluating, finding nothing of either sustenance or substance.
In his emptiness, I sense his desperation for my religion. He seeks a fane with an altar of leather and chains. Here is not that temple.
Here is an artificial place, shat from a machine's anus. Here, mirrors are black, reflecting nothing. Here, exploding, manic strobe lights illuminate nothing. Malice and hatred wafts like mustard gas. Here stinks of quotidian suburbs, and he would not be here except for the lies he'd been told that this was a place for sublime pleasures.
He is surrounded by entities human in shape but monstrous in soul. Hello, Shub-Niggurath, the Goat with a Thousand Young: that vast belly sags like a great teat full of milk fit only to nurse a foul brood. Bitch ye, O Cthulhu, about clothes and television and the queens and the rent boys who took the money but wouldn't put out. Like mushrooms growing in shit are the fungi from Yuggoth, sporting identical goatees, duplicate piercings, and shaven skulls. And the colour out of space is the greenback, passed from palm to greedy barkeep, a leprous plague that does not kill but disfigures.
I hear his thoughts. His mind quivers on the verge of a higher plane. I decode his uncertainty. Is this all? Is there no heaven? Is it all hell, from the Big Bang to the latest remix of thirty year old disco?
In his ear I whisper: no. My breath is hot and dry as sunburn.
Silently I chuckle when he jumps. He looks round at the medusas thronging the bar, uncertain of where this truth has come from.
Since I transcend flesh he cannot perceive me. But his cock does. In his jeans--most becoming to his slender body--an unbidden hardon thrusts down his right thigh. He's astounded by his sudden lust, confused about the cause, wondering who was speaking to him.
His age is delicately poised between youth's squeamish insecurities and maturity's bitter defeat. Eschewing the fashion of this sexed-up but sexless era, tight denim outlines as ass of perfect imperfections -- more slender than conjoined-melon ideal, yet pleasantly round, firm, eager to part. Hot testicles jostle in his crotch, rubbing each other, stretching the fabric, revealing his potency and his eagerness. A sleeveless tee shirt, adorned with the skeletal logo of a speed metal band, marks him out from the herd.
Shoulder-length hair lies like a buccaneer's banner upon his skull; the desire for more of it shimmers down his spine. His smooth torso beneath the sable cotton belongs to the realm of those who idolized Olympus and not to those who submit to the knife and to the silicone and the grease-dripping ratburger. No beard decorates his jaw, for that would mar its right-angled perfection. He is a slut colt eager to be bucked by a bronco stallion.
He's easy to read.
Once, when he was a lonely teenager fisting that rod in a lonely bed, he dreamt of places like this, thinking--not wishing, not hoping, but simply assuming--them to be altars of the flesh, vast orgiastic palaces of degradation and lust. He'd hoped the True Old Ones--those gods who rutted and fucked and bred in the light of the gibbous moon, ithyphallic and spewing psychedelically-colored jism, and who had to have sanctified these places--would pop his cherry, tight as all junior high cherries are. Dreaming of the day of his apotheosis, he stained his sheets over and over with spunk.
But now he knows he has been played for a fool, sucked in by the lies that are endemic to this race of naked apes on this miserable, dying world. He now knows these places to be prisons, anterooms of this dreary theocracy emulating Rome not in greatness but in its moralizing hollowness and in the magnitude of its fall.
Here there are no massive prongs hanging free, no fists greased and ready, no whips burning with lust's flame. Just dull fags, undeserving of their flesh, ravenous for fashion, nursed on television. Themselves nothing, they have become human-shaped mirrors, inanimate and capable only of reflecting brilliance not creating it.
His emptiness, so pure, pleases me.
His lust provides the power, and his imagination supplies the form of my manifestation. So I enflesh myself.
His need endows me with equine-sized breeding equipment, of human shape, supporting breeding-sacs like boulders between my thighs. He bequeaths me a reek powerful enough to drive from his mind the horror of this place and the dying empire which whelped it: I stink of ancient sweat and crusted testosterone and the hay from ten thousand breeding stalls and all the piss that's passed through all the cocks since sexual reproduction began all those millions of years ago, when my kind encoded the erotic impulse into the DNA of this world's first autotrophic organisms. He needs to see a hard, muscled ass made to drive a cock, so my ass flares into the globular perfection he aspires to, and admires, but does not have. Thighs striated with muscles strain to support my horsecock. Chaps creak, struggling to encase this hypermale bulk he's given me; he's an odd one, for his lust covers the chaps in a pelt of shaggy fur. My torso he leaves bare, unmasking my armored pectorals and stomach for his delectation. Down my back writhe tattoos depicting demonic things: raging infernos, unnatural couplings of dragons and boys, dark men with burning coals for eyes bearing barbed whips, clenched fists dripping rectal mucous. In miniscule lettering all the porn stories ever written crowd round the images: hieroglyphs relate the buggering of Osiris by Set; cuneiform tells of Mardek balling Gilgamesh; Hebraic recounts the tale of David sucking Goliath's prong; Aramaic narrates the forbidden--and true--version of the wilderness temptation, when Satan fucked Jesus.
Quick as lightning struck by Thor's hammer, I reveal myself to him. He is an intelligent boy. For when he sees me, he knows. He knows what I am, and he realizes an ultimate truth: flesh and soul one, cannot be separated in fact or in analysis. The urgings of his flesh are the true craving of his soul.
Understanding at last that the temple of sex is everywhere, he chooses to worship.
He descends to his knees before me. His nose snuffles my crotch forest. He keens for cock. Having made myself into what he needs, we are nouns no more. We are all motion, now; the time for stasis is gone. The best of all verbs exists in all types of speech. In your language it is: to fuck.
His tongue, slaved to instinct, laves my thigh, rising for my sex. My fingers entwine his hair, holding his succulent lips an inch from my cock. He glances upward to see my panting mouth and dripping fangs. His shoulders sag, and he submits.
Forcing his gaze downward, I invite him to contemplate my cockhead. He really wants to, as most beings naturally just do. That raging instrument has plunged and reared and bucked in the innards of species through this and all the other universes. I have fucked hairy, brutish species and cool, clean intellectual species and species of superconducting liquid helium whose emotions and feelings are electric currents. I have fucked single-celled animals in primordial ooze with such exquisite skill that they abandoned fission as passionless and taken up the pounding fury of fusion.
He must understand this of my cock before we can begin. I am no amateur, like his species.
His flushed face shows that he does.
My foreskin opens, not like a human foreskin by sliding back, but like a morning glory--the way a stallion's cock flares before the beast floods his mare with billions of sperm. A blunt cockhead steams, webbed by smegma. My hot, rancid reek dominates the room.
The raw power of aroused male stink strips from the atmosphere the feminine horror of cologne and talcum powder as if attacked by acid. The sudden transition is too much for someone. From Shub-niggurath comes a shriek loud and piercing as Adam's when he beheld the twin-cocked Serpent fucking his betrothed. My stink is intolerable to the human dregs surrounding this poor lustboy.
But this lustboy is entranced, and he kneels between my thighs, beholding a golden richness greater than all the hoards of history and of myth; Fafnir lusted to drowse upon this treasure. This boy is greedy in the proper way. Twin rivers of spit dribble from the corners of his lips, gush over his chin, spatter his obscene jeans. More aroused than he's ever been, his nipples begin to wet that black shirt with milk unnatural to his sex. Shub-niggurath is banished from his mind.
I grin, release his hair. Now you can worship, I tell him. Now that you've abandoned your divisions, become whole and entire--now you can worship.
His lips plunge onto me. Greasy smegma smears them. I close my foreskin over his face, a mask of flesh. His mouth is full of cockhead, his tongue hungry for my cheese, and he breaths my fumes. He has something better to exist on that this miserable poisonous atmosphere of tobacco, booze, and cologne. My breeding-stench raises him to heights unimagined even in the sexual dawn of puberty.
His tongue swoops over my burning cockhead, guzzling cheese. He chokes. The acidic meal burns his gullet. His flesh sizzles.
It is so intense that he cannot last long.
In his lungs his first true orgasm originates, elicited by the gaseous headcheese he breathes. He coughs, shudders, jets a flood of brood-gravy down his thigh.
First of many. He knows that. Once you partake the food of the gods you're erect until you merge with the orgy of the universe. His hardon will tent his garments--if he chooses to wear them--forever. Our minds and desires are as tight as Eros' self-lubricating rectum.
I unglue my foreskin from his face, the suction drawing a thin rope of precum from my two-inch wide piss slit. The rope mesmerizes him, swaying like a pendulum before his eyes.
Before we begin to ascend the heights, a brief revelation of the horror he'll be forever free of. Bloated Shub-Niggurath shrinks in horror against the mirrored wall, maggot-flesh quivering. This is what his enemy is and has been. Nothing but weakness. This is my chief gift, and my bride-price.
His eyes fix on my cocksnot metronome. The hair on the back of his neck spikes as I leak and the translucent teardrop stretches.
Time to deepen this enchantment. I gesture. He responds. My sorcery lifts him from the floor like a fallen leaf stirred by a gust, turns him to present the acute, inverted V of his torso and his glorious ass for my perusal. It carries him over to the mirrored wall where he comes to rest. I raise a pair of obsidian columns--stone cockshafts thrusting through the floor, throbbing with the drums of darkest desire. They're alive, of course, conscious, and subject to my will. The stone cockshafts shiver, deliquesce for a moment like oil, then extrude tentacles. They seize him by wrist and ankle, draw him into the form St. Andrew and legions of others have loved.
He turns towards me. His eyes burn through the locks of his hair. The right leg of his jeans is soaked with cum. His head nods. Yes, yes. The slut's mantra.
He amuses me enough to chuckle.
The second dimension, while having no width, does allow for infinite length. In his case, I think ten or twelve feet will do.
I call it the Intergalactic Rope Trick. I use my cock, of whatever size or shape, as the grip of a whip. It's worked on every species in every galaxy that can possibly feel pain. It's very simple. While whipping that strand of precum through parabolas and ellipses, I let my nuts leak, and the precum stretches into a fine wire of oozing lust. I try to control its elongation, to stop at twelve feet, but I'm just as subject to lust as any sane being, so I fuck it up. It stretches fourteen feet. This boy makes me hot.
The flesh crawls between his shoulder blades. I can see his eyes, hot and red-rimmed. Imprisoned by the binding tentacles, he goes limp.
Why bother with gentleness? When Loki spread his legs for the giants did he expect caresses and sweet nothings? He was no fool, but rather a slut after my own heart.
I grasp my shaft, flick it. The precum whip flies in a graceful arc. I snap my cock forward. As the tip goes supersonic, the crack booms like Odinic thunder. It strikes. The tee shirt splits, falls, two black petals torn free. The speeding tip lashes his flesh. A blood red bloom of pain explodes in his eyes. Back arches, torso thrusts forward; the cockshaft tentacles struggle against his agony. He screams the tormented ululation you hear only from the grounds of an insane asylum in the darkest hour of the night. The blood begins to flow, a crimson tide towards his waist.
He won't escape. Not because of the nigrescent tentacles, which can restrain anything, but because he doesn't want to. He wants to love his own flesh; he wants to feel his body truly live.
Again my precum whip cracks. I burn another mark onto him. This time a bend sinister, from left shoulder to right hip. A cherry saltire marks his back. A red icon of himself and his pain and his lust, an X marking the spot where he dwells.
Again and again. He's hungry for it. His nerves scream like Torquemada at an Iron Maiden concert.
I give him one for ecstasy, just to show him I am an artist. It's a mere slash along is spine from his buttocks to his neck, but I cut him in a special way, and his balls shatter in a cloud of white sperm and his mind chokes and drowns under the potent ejaculate of a herd of wild mustangs.
Again, he amuses me, this time in the method by which he looses his mind.
I take a moment to contemplate how best to prepare him for what is to come. He must go beyond sight of the sane lands, he must drift into the formlessness of lust. In the end I choose fire, because that causes him the most terror. The beautiful do not like to be disfigured.
Beating him with all the fury of my rage against this dying realm, I turn my precum into a streamer of flame. Lashing his flesh, the smell of burned pork rises, and his screams shatter the mirrors. But I, of course, do not damage his flesh. I appreciate it far too much. His soul, however, bears every scar, and throbs to this day with the agony.
I have many talents with my whip, and he'll soon learn new ones when I come to him again. He'll be eager for them all, but the final lesson--that will be something the artist in him will appreciate. In that ultimate encounter, I will barb my precum whip, and I will rip his flesh from his bones, and he'll cum with every stroke, because then it will be time for his passion. I'll tear him into fragments, smaller and smaller, each bloody shred of flesh pulsing with orgasms. He'll no longer shoot sperm. He will become sperm, the raw stuff of life. I'll take his cells and beat them further, till they're just atoms, atoms which ejaculate photons when electrons orgasm and drop into a less-excited state. In pain he came into the world; in well-deserved ecstasy he'll leave it.
Cthulhu shrieks and the Yuggoth-fungi flee; the color of abandoned money flutters like snowflakes. My fire hallows this place, banishing the sterility, cleansing the dreadful miasma with scorched, hot flesh.
My final stroke I do not lay with the intent of sharpening his pleasure, but for the sheer artistry of it. A vertical slice, shoulders to ass, slices along his spine. Denim splits from belt to balls. Bare ass thrusts into my view. Eager. Lightly haired, sweat streaming down it, pinkish from oozing blood. His hole is the eloquent symbol of hunger.
Done, my cockwhip thrashes on the floor, twitching, eager, alive. Ripples stream up it to my cock. Now that all eyes are turned upon him and the beast raping him it's time to give this needy acolyte his penultimate communion.
Public sin is the best sin. As is a public epiphany.
Like a transparent worm, my whip crawls towards him. It loops round his ankle. It slithers upwards and finds his buttocks, presses insistently against the mystic rose of his anus. He sucks it inside him, where it dissolves into a flood of lubrication.
Many are the positions in the all-male Kama Sutra. But the one I favor has the worshipper on his knees, butt held high, ballsack visible between hard thighs, asshole presented for breeding. The tentacles position him for me. He's eager, presenting like a mare. His pucker, glistening, purses like a lover's lips, beckoning to me. His breathing is deep and ragged. He peers over his left shoulder, eyes bright with fear. Men are made to be mounted from behind.
I step forward. I press my cockhead between those cheeks. For the first time, his butthole kisses the face of his dark god.
There are three simple rules for fucking a bitch like him. Ram. Deep. Hard.
The awful need inside him--to be fucked and filled--has endowed me monstrously. And his rectum is tighter than an unplucked altar boy. As I stab inwards, his shriek, like ripping steel, is merely the opening note of my Infinite Opus.
Gentleness is uncalled for. My balls drum against his pathetic sacks. His rectum contracts, struggles to eject that which is about to split him apart. My claws go round his neck, and I clamp myself to him, and I grind my hips and rape his raw flesh. Delicious, these contractions.
He twists around, looks at me with bloodshot eyes, perfect images of pain and longing. He sees my dark shaggy shape, perceives the invisible antlers of energy which perpetually crown me. His chin is shiny with drool. He's lost most of his mind. Sweaty tendrils of hair wrap round that skullful of insanity. Twisting his butt he rejoices in my cock.
"Now fuck!" he screams.
I laugh, whip my hips back, plunge in. A pure breeding motion, no pleasure, just rut. His head drops, he falls limp everywhere except in his rectum, an eager Eve to my awesome Serpent.
This is his dream, from days not so long ago when he sat in a hot pew in some Baptist church in eastern Tennessee, aflame with puberty, quivering as he perused the erotica of the Bible--Lot's daughters preserving their father's studly seed; angels defying Jehovah to couple with tight human orifices; Noah's drunken nakedness and the shame caused by his offspring's lust; the pounding cocks and dripping cunts resulting in the endless chain of begats preceding the whelping of the Son of God.
This is his reality: my cock, my sack, swollen and eager to fertilize him. Rutting, blazing away inside of him, searing his flesh.
We pleasure each other. He has orgasms, an endless stream of them, crashing into him, wracking him. They don't matter, of course--nothing really matters except when I breed--but I can smell the tsunami of jism soaking his jeans. Ah, those jeans, cladding tight human ass. No wonder the Grays from Zeta Reticuli cross the sea of night to probe these exquisite human asses.
I could ram him until the heat-death of the universe. I could cum for every second of that near-eternity, for my balls are not balls as humans understand them, but rather a gateway to a universe where there are no atoms of hydrogen or helium or anything heavier: only a universe of quantum spunk, flailing in endless orgy.
He sorely tempts me. My balls burn with the rut, and my shaft, crammed into his dank tunnel, quivers with the pleasure I take in him. Yes, I would fuck him for eternity. But I am here for more reasons besides this human's pleasure.
His breeding starts when I begin to jet between those hard asscheeks. A gusher of sperm goes off in his intestines, packing him with steaming potency all the way from his anus to his duodenum. His orgasm--or at least the final one he has impaled on my cock--is only visible in the thin lines of blood, pulsing from the welts on his back; I've fucked his nuts dry.