tagNonHumanSummoning The God

Summoning The God


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 neons. It gave the place a medieval atmosphere, like some old monastery. I walked over to the center of the room where I'd ripped up some of the dingy old carpet, revealing a patch of concrete about six meters across. Faint blue chalk marks drawn on the rough gray 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-flavored Latin, I couldn't tell which particular faith had inspired this nameless book. I was reasonably certain it wasn't Hebraic or Carthaginian or Aramaic or Egyptian; it wasn't Celtic or Arabic or Druid, although some of the illustrations contained a few elements of the Horned God. I was thankful for the translations and annotations; I could recognize 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 gray smoke mushroomed out across the ceiling. It smelled rank, like animal fur after a rainstorm, simultaneously repellent and oddly seductive. I stood at the center of the cleared space, hefted the one-pound bag of pure heroin and hacked a hole in the bottom with the ritual knife. The white powder began falling to the floor in a three-hundred-dollar-a-gram dust storm. I grounded, centered, 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 center of the roughly elliptical form, raised the ritual knife and (I always felt embarrassed about this - what I imagined as the "performance-art" aspect of ceremonial magic) 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 Theater:

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 realized 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 guttural German syllables seeming to spark off my back teeth:

... nur noch kleine kriese ziehen. Wir Koennten, aber -

There was a pause, a silence disturbed 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 meters tall, muscular, broad-shouldered, carbon-black hair gathered in a ponytail over one shoulder a contrast to his pale grayish 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 favors, 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 neon 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 irresistible 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 phallic 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 magical 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. His head dropped to my breasts as his hands expertly sought out my darkest place. I felt a surge of electricity as his tongue lavished my nipples, his finger delving in and out of me, my climax on the teetering brink of oblivion as the electricity shocked my nerves and my vaginal muscles clenched around his index while his thumb nudged my clit slowly. I felt him smile on my breasts as I reached orgasm. It was the most powerful one I had ever experienced. My whole body arced to his, his index being joined by his middle as I spasmed jerkily around them, my fluids coating his hands and dripping to the floor.

The insistent pressure of his growing erection against my side reminded me of what I was supposed to be doing here; as forcefully as I could with my awe towards him, 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 small hole of my pussy 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 pussy 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 pussy 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 ecstasy, 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 womb and my cunt was stretched around the base, which felt as wide as a lamp-post. He sat me down in his lap and gripped my mound, holding it still in his massive fist, not stroking me, just holding me and giving the occasional squeeze.

I could feel something building, like before, magic 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 lips in his palm 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 mound; 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 crystallized around me, like a collapsing building falling down over me: I was on all fours in an abandoned library, being fucked by a God.

He was racing towards climax now, pulling back until the head of his erection tugged painfully at my cunt, 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 slot. Each time he thrust, his cock pressed up against me inside and my clit 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 ecstasy 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 nose.

I was distantly aware of him pulling out of me, a sharp twinge of pleasurable pain as his head popped out and hot liquid pouring out of my distended pussy 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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