Niceman Black and The Sabbat

"By the sympathy of your human hearts for sin, ye shall scent out all the places--whether in church, bed-chamber, street, field, or forest--where crime has been committed, and shall exult to behold the whole earth one stain of guilt, one mighty bloodspot."

Nathaniel Hawthorne

Youthful Niceman Black had been warned his entire life to never wander into the forest. However, when he found Hope collapsed at the butter churner, he knew he had no choice.

"My poor wife," he said, holding her sagging form to keep her from toppling over. Fevered and weak, he stroked the damp strands of blonde that fell from her bonnet. Her skin burned beneath her dress. "My love and my faith. You know of the choice I must make. It is the only way."

"N-niceman," she rasped, weary from afternoons of coughing and haphazard exertion. "Please put that dark thought from thy mind and lock it away. Spend your night with me in your own bed. Let's not waste what moments we have --"

"Do not speak of such things, Hope," Niceman reproached. He knew her words ventured into despair. Niceman refused to believe her death loomed near. "We will be rid of this. I promise."

Placing his hand atop his heart, he put it to hers, feeling the crackling heaves of her breath. He carried her into their marital bedroom. Handling her as he would an infant, he put her back into bed, making sure to cocoon her in warmth. Her forehead scorched his lips as he leaned in for a kiss. She had already fallen into the shadows of a deep, distrubed sleep.

Niceman rose to his feet, walking to take his hat off of the table. Through the window of their modest kitchen, he gazed out to the unknown through which he would trudge. Rumors had always emanated throughout the village at what lay within those gloomy trees. Hushed whispers spoke of witches, ghouls, or perhaps even the Devil himself lurking about in the forest.

Until this particular sunset, Niceman had kept his ears shut to such speculation. He had always looked to the church and his righteous gods, electing a life of duty, propriety, and ignorance. For meek though he was, his discipline to his catechism and his work remained unparalleled. But like many of his neighbors, he too found the forest a frightening temptation. That wall of trees teased a realm of potential answers or opportunities. It seemed a place that accommodated a man with drive and determination, of which he had in spades.

He moved to the door, pausing at the threshold. He took one last look at Hope and knew that she would be with him. Taking up his walking stick, he set out amongst the tall grass that marked the last stretch of civilization.

As he walked, he sensed movement in the grass to his left. Argus, the village stray, seemed to bid him a concerned farewell. Seeing so much worry in the canine's amber eyes, Niceman knelt to reassure him.

"Don't allow yourself to carry the weight of worry, pup. That burden is mine. I don't know what awaits me within the embrace of these trees, but I need you to watch over Hope while I am away. And with the cure I bring for my wife, I'll also bring a rabbit for her guardian." He gave the clever dog a nice scratch between the ears. Argus blessed him with a sloppy kiss on the chin and turned to go sit on the porch of his home. With one last wave, he turned heel and stepped into the forest.

Red light of the dying day shone through small gaps in the trees. Insects and vermin did not drone and sprawl in these trees. All was quiet as the tomb, save for the dead leaves that crunched beneath his steps. Despite the unease that this place inspired, Niceman Black trekked forth.

Within the last moments of dusk, he came into a clearing. In its center, stood two women. One of them he recognized as Goody Cloyse, a woman of utmost piety and wisdom and a prominent figure in his village. The hunched old woman peered up to the other who stood a few inches higher, hooded beneath a cloak black as shadow. Niceman could not make out her face, but the design of her matching gown sported the lowest neckline that Niceman had ever seen.

The women of his village were modest, always covered to the collar. This woman did not seem to come from a Puritan village. A split that started at her naval tapered into a wide V barely contained the swell of her breasts. The smooth skin of her exposed torso bore no hue of color and resembled a streak of moonlight. Unable to help himself, his eyes scanned the woman's body as he moved closer to them. The skirts of her sable gown were woven of a fine material that clung to her slender waist that widened into a pair of healthy hips. Niceman just knew she had a rump on her. Remember why you're here, peeped the voice of his conscience. Niceman had finally realized why he'd been warned of the forest.

The cloaked woman held a hand to silence Goody Cloyce as Niceman approached.

"Niceman Black," she intoned in a voice that sounded more playful than her sensually sinister appearance exhibited. However, he found himself more surprised that she knew his name. "You were almost very late."

"I didn't know that I was... expected," he said as he approached them. "Goody Cloyse," Niceman called, diverting his attention from the woman. The wrinkly spinster appeared startled at his call and moved her surly gaze to him. "You shouldn't be out and about in such treacherous terrain without something to support your legs." He pushed his walking stick into one of her gnarled, shaking hands. In return, she thumped him hard on the head with it.

"Young Niceman Black in the forest. What depravity led ye here, lad? I don't even want to know!" She squawked her old Puritan grandmother reproach, punctuating her points with wallops of his stick to his chest. "Come Lecture Day, I'll have ye speaking thy catechism until blueness colors thy heathen face." Niceman knew better than to talk back and just let her tire out. Breathy from effort, Cloyse turned back to the hooded woman.

"Now, what should I do about that young bitch Goody Clenman?" Without a word, the cloaked woman reached into her sleeve to retrieve a vial filled with a nefarious pink liquid. Niceman felt himself wanting to look away from that sickly stuff, but Goody Cloyse licked her gums, an expression of perverted greed molded into the wrinkles of her face.

"Ensure she drinks this in her ritual wine," the woman intoned. "It'll cause a horribly contagious pox to spread to her nethers. That way, you'll know if your nephew has done what you claim. He will itch. Then he'll burn. As will she and any... others that there may be. Does this suit you?"

"Yeah. Yeah. Gimme it," the crone urged. The woman relinquished the vial and reached out to grasp Goody Cloyse's face in a firm grip. Manicured nails sunk into the ancient folds of the twisted woman's face.

"Hold on, now," Niceman stepped in with the intention to intervene.

"We'll have council soon, Niceman Black," the woman said, never breaking eye contact with Cloyse. She spoke through clenched teeth, and her words bore a supernatural resonance. Niceman made no further move.

"Don't forget who owns thee, Goody Cloyse," she said, her tone low, yet severe.

"When I peer upon you, I do not see your sallow, pitiful flesh in its house of cracked bones. No, I see the dents of your sins upon your hideous soul. Languish now in your gossip and intrigue, because you will be mine soon." She released her, and the old woman limped off, using his stick for support.

"But... she taught me my catechism," Niceman said, watching her leave, his tone laced with betrayal. His attention was diverted as the woman reached up and lowered her hood. She had raven hair that rivaled the blackness of her open-chested gown. A toothy smile slashed the beautiful highboned structure of her face. Irises that bore a glow of supernatural emerald pierced his gaze, and he had to look down from her.

"You act like you do not recognize me, Niceman Black," she said, narrowing her eyes at him.

"I do not."

"You know me well. I can be seen within every crevice of that stinking village of yours. In every theft of coin from the collection plate. In every adulterous movement of the priest wife's whore lips. In every scheme hatched by that snake Goody Cloyse. Your kin I know just as well as the others. I helped your father, the constable, as he lashed the innocent woman he accused of being a witch so brutally that she perished. I even helped your grandfather place the sixth torch that incinerated the horde of savages who inhabited these lands before your kind."

As that terrible, beautiful woman spoke her words of poison, she had ushered in the night. Moonlight washed the clearing in a ghostly glow of silver. "But you, Niceman Black," she continued. "Have always seemed to be one of the good ones. Therefore, I will not bother you with trickery and blight. You gave that snake Cloyse your own walking stick. A display of true kindness to one so wicked. I know your purpose for straying into these lands, and it pains me to admit that I cannot help your wife. But there are others, deeper in this forest who can. At least allow me to give you my blessing."

Niceman felt himself get pulled into her, and she wrestled her lips to his. He debated resisting, but decided against it as his cock went hard in his trousers as the softness of her tits pressed against his chest. Her sweet tongue slithered into his mouth, and he looked down to watch her ample cleavage press into him. She took one of his hands and pried it from his side, placing it on one of her mounds to let him knead their softness.

She pulled away from him, placing her hand on his face. An image of Hope filled his mind, and the stressful warmth of shame spread through his chest. He closed his eyes, shaking his head to reground himself. When he opened his eyes, the woman was gone, but a lantern sat on a nearby stump to accompany him.

Deeper in the forest, the woman's voice sounded in his head, as clear as his own thoughts. There is a witch's sabbat. Its host can help you by the night's end. But hurry, Niceman Black. An evil worse than mine closes in on Hope. His conscience squealed in defiance as he stepped into the blackness of the forest. An aura of orange lit a mere few steps ahead of his feet. Fear and Doubt took turns tugging at the frail arms of his fearful mind, but his will urged him on. I love you, Hope.

Further on, he saw a sizable manor, simple and colonial. Sitting atop a hill, activity pulsed in the candle light that shone through its latticed windows. Before he even approached it, Niceman smelled the sweet incense. Candied smells made his nose tickle and dizzied his head, reminding him little of the sterile smell of his own church's incense. These bore a debaucherous scent that led Niceman to believe a number of tests awaited him within this bewildering place.

As he ascended the hill, the door to the home opened and cast a beam of candlelight onto the forest floor. In the doorway, a moving mass of naked bodies almost poured from the threshold. Before they could stumble out, they scrambled back in, leaving just enough room for himself it seemed.

Pushing himself through, he felt himself smothered by babbling women and men. He felt their soft nakedness rub against his fibrous garb. Their faces were all so familiar, but he couldn't place them without their capotain, breeches, bonnets, or roughspun dresses. On this night, they were all united in this black magic revelry.

Smooth adagio notes of a lute sounded in the air, and Niceman made out the vague shape of the biggest frog he'd ever seen. Advancing further, he saw two other amphibians that formed a band atop the makeshift stage in the sizable den. One sat behind a set of drums. Two others danced insync, one wailing away on his lute, the other tooting notes through a pan flute. Not exactly the dissonant tones that Niceman expected from a witch's sabbat.

Still, he found great interest in the creatures. Slightly shorter than men, they moved with humanlike charisma as they played their tune to the writhing group of ritualists. Niceman walked further, looking for anyone who might still bear their faculties. Out of respect, he removed his hat. Sweat pasted his bangs to his forehead, and he kept his eyes forward, trying not to stare at all of the bare breasts and ankles surrounding him.

In the fourier, he found a flight of stairs that seemed to be the designated fornication zone. Groups of two, three, even four people dotted the stairs, each group in various states of sex. To Niceman's surprise, some pairs were two women. Some had two or three men together. Some had two men and a woman. Niceman had no idea that such pairings could exist, and he found a begrudging appreciation for the freedom they exhibited. These groups lined the red carpet of the stairs that seemed to lead to the epicenter of this pit of sin.

Niceman had to push himself past a couple who seemed unaware that he needed to get by. The man had the woman bent over the elegant railing. Her exposed tits hung over its edge. They wobbled back and forth as her lover slammed himself into her. The sound of their colliding genitals created its own percussive beat.

Not two steps further, three women sat abreast. Their tresses flowed free, tangled from the sexual exploits of the sabbat. Taking turns with one another, they kissed in a deep, passionate grappling of their tongues. Their hands moved in gorgeous synchronicity from their own dripping sexes to explore the others', never seeming to get enough. Before long, one woman pushed the other so that she laid before her. The woman took a crouched position, lowering her face to feast upon her lover's wetness. Behind her, the third woman positioned herself in the same crouching position to form the kaboose of the oral train. That can't be comfortable on the stairs. Though, I don't think they mind at all Niceman thought, having to step around the oblivious, licking women.

Weaving around several other writhing groupings, Niceman made it to the top of the stairs, almost tripping over himself. He took one last look at the festival of flesh. As he advanced, he wanted nothing but to free himself and join them. Perhaps that group of three ladies?

You wish, piped his conscience. Remember Hope. Nodding, he turned to face this new challenge.

Double doors, wide open and lined with satin red curtains, welcomed him. Inside, women joined hands around the circular room. Black rings from the charcoals of ceremonial fires encircled their eyes. Some seemed as young as twenty and others as old as 70. Bladed points of a massive pentagram had been chalked into the ground, and in the center, Niceman watched a man thrust the full length of his sizable member into a woman.

Stepping around to get a better view, careful not to step on any part of the pentagram, or the candles that lined the boundaries of its points. Niceman recognized the man as Father Fitzpatrick, the head of the church. His face was twisted into a crazed grimace of lust as he dropped the entirety of his length into the woman beneath him. His face was turned to the ceiling, and his eyes rolled into the back of his head. Strands of his sweaty hair stuck to his cheeks.

The woman he plowed like a field during harvest laid bunched beneath him, her muscled legs over his shoulders. Her body proved a contour of bountiful curves. Breasts like globes of flesh bounced with a heavy suppleness as she endured Fitzpatrick's thrusts. Beneath him, a magnificent ass jiggled as the priest's full testicles clapped her cheeks. Her skin, pale as winter's first snow, bathed in the aura of candle light. Smooth as silk, her form bore a heavy shine from the heavy ceremonial oils of the sabbat. Hair redder than any Niceman had seen had been pulled into an oiled braid. Intricately woven, it wound behind her like an uncoiled crimson serpent. However, her expression was indifferent compared to that of her lover's. Eyes the same red as her hair rolled in her head, not in pleasure, but in exasperation.

Father Fitzpatrick picked up his pace, pistoning into her as his orgasm approached.

"Uggghhhhhh.... That's it you fucking whore. You'll take this seed in your cunt. I want that fuck Malakiel to push my child into your womb after he splits you open." Niceman did not hear the kindly voice of compassionate Father Fitzpatrick. Rather, this man spoke with a deep, severe voice that belonged to something from the darkest of nightmares.

"Yes, baby. That's it. Just like that," the woman droned, gazing at her nails. Father Fitzpatrick slowed, favoring the deep, heaving thrusts that denoted a man's impending orgasm. Driving himself as deep as he would go, he left his cock inside her as he unleashed his vile load. Niceman recoiled as he watched the face of his priest change as he bottomed out.

Color left his eyes and black veins formed at his temples and on the tendons of his neck. His lips parted into a snarl, revealing rows of jagged teeth that would belong to a shark. He mumbled inaudible phrases in a language so horrible, it made Niceman's very soul feel uneasy at their utterance. However, the woman beneath him seemed unphased as the demon finished inside her.

Gradually, Father Fitzpatrick's face reverted to its original form. His expression went from depraved bliss to horror in seconds. Withdrawing himself from her, he crawled back on his hands.

"Where the devil am I," he called. Before he got an answer, the women in the room began wailing, darting from their motionless formation into horrid action. They took him by his limbs and removed the screaming and disoriented Father Fitzpatrick. Only Niceman and the red woman remained.

She sat up, emitting a deep exhale. From between the fullness of her lips, drifted an evil smoke that filled the room, coiling around the both of them. Niceman flinched from its presence, recognizing it as whatever spirit had been inside of Father Fitzpatrick. He could feel it moving around him, trying to infiltrate his body, mind, spirit, or any part of him that would house the specter.

The woman blew out again, and the vengeful presence fled the room. Drawing her legs back into a fold, she took her seat in the center of the pentagram.

"Who are you," the woman asked, regarding him with those eyes. Surprisingly, he found a comfort staring into them, as though he communed with a wayward friend.

"I'm Niceman Black. Thank you for having me to your party." The woman let out an explosive laugh.

"Party for them? Sure. But for me? No. Not yet, at least. But you've come at the most exciting hour, Niceman Black." As she spoke, he found himself stealing glances at her pale hangers, round as the ripest of melons. He had to keep reminding himself why he came.

"Why is that," he hesitated at her name. "I'm sorry. I didn't catch the name of my host."

"I'm called Delpha."

"Just that?"

"Just Delpha is all you ever need to know of my name, Niceman Black. Come and sit, please. Be a peach and bring that wine jug there." Niceman retrieved the jug and a silver goblet. "Get one for yourself," she urged. Reluctantly, he took another glass and moved into the center of the pentagram. He sat just outside of its center; It seemed that was her seat. He filled their glasses with the violet wine. Trying a sip, he found it far too sweet.

"You need to learn the risks of venturing in a place beyond your clearly limited ken, Niceman Black," she teased while she observed him sip. "In a place of magic, so unlike the suppressed confines of your village, and you drink the wine of a woman who sleeps with demons. How do you know that wine wouldn't make your insides your outsides, or turn your into your least favorite animal?" She took a sip.

"You wanted wine from the same jug. I reckon that makes it pretty safe," he said, satisfied with himself. "So, Father Fitzpatrick had been enthralled by an evil spirit," he asked, changing the subject and pretending as though he didn't fear an impending transmogrification. Delpha nodded.