The Unluckiest Evil Mage

History and legend are filled with the misdeeds of evil mages from time immemorial. Sooner or later, some pissed off bastard figures out a way to commit Voodoo. Or Black Magic. Or Blood Sacrifice. Or Necromancy. Or cast evil curses that echo through a family's bloodline throughout history. The Historical texts are filled with the exploits of the evil, and the suffering they caused.

But what is far lesser known is that trifling with the forces of evil, such as demonology, necromancy, spellcasting, can extract a heavy toll on the user. Only one in a million would-be evil scourges whose names will ring throughout history are successful in their attempts at evildoing.

By far the more common outcome of dealing with the forces of dread evil is that they backfire on the spell-caster, himself.

Take for example the horrible example of Skeeter, the Sullenly Luckless. Not only did his chosen name truly suck, so did his first attempt at summoning a demon, and a succubus! He meant to turn them loose on the world. But he included the wrong sub-species variant of digitalis in his potion, and when the demon and succubus appeared in the hexagram? He found himself, stripped naked, trapped in the hexagram, with them!

It was 90 days before he managed to free himself, and in that 90 days, there were hardly 90 minutes in which he was not finding one or another orifice of his body penetrated, relentlessly, by the gargantuan sexual organs of the highly pissed off demonic duo. He sent them back to Hell, yes.

Eventually.

With smiles on their tired, happy faces.

And that's all he would ever say about it. The old women of the village noted that it was another 90 days before Skeeter could walk normally.

You'd think Skeeter would have learned, and counted himself lucky. Truly, few are the men in this world given the chance to get to be so in-touch with their feminine side!

But ... Skeeter didn't see it that way. And a little while later, he was back to his old resentful ways. This time, he summoned a Minotaur. A sexually accurate, VERY sexually excited Minotaur.

The Minotaur used Skeeter's body relentlessly, mercilessly, for many, many, months. Skeeter lost count of the number of times he came near to drowning in the Minotaur's semen, as it forcefully plundered his throat, threatening to unhinge Skeeter's jaw with the sheer size of the Minotaur's cock, and the force of his thrusting.

To his credit, the Minotaur wasn't all bad. He sincerely tried to be a gentleman, by, admittedly, Minotaur standards. It offered Skeeter a reach-around, at the very least, for the endless days and nights, and days and nights, and days and nights! of relentless, thrusting, orgasmic joy Skeeter's body had provided him.

You might not think that sounds too bad. Unfortunately ... the Minotaur didn't have hands. And it's hooves, on Skeeters cock ... well, the less you know, the better. Let's just say that afterwards, Skeeter had ... significant!... callousing. Let's just let it go at that, shall we, dear reader?

This time, Skeeter's recovery took over a year and a half. The poor wasted bastard was hardly a shell of the man he used to be.

But had he learned anything? Had Skeeter, at last, been fucked out of his illusions of sharing the power of the forces of Evil?

You'd think so, wouldn't you?

No! No sooner had he returned to some aspect of health, than he began experimenting with Black magic in true earnest. Blood sacrifice magic. Necromancy. Virgin sacrifice.

Now, this last item on his list, virgin sacrifice, led Skeeter to a desperate search. Humans, especially human women, all in all, aren't very good at remaining virginal for long! They get married. Or they get desperate, and attack wandering visitors at their father's Inns. Or their brothers, you know how it is, right? One day, around 18, a girl wakes up, sees her brother laying in the bed beside her? Because they're so poor they've only got one bed, if that, right? And of course they're naked because who's got money for clothes, right? Way in the Hell out in the Country, nothing to do, can't read or write, looking after the homestead after Mom and Dad were taken by pleurisy after the last hard winter? Call it whatever you want, the fact is, there really aren't a lot of human female virgins, around, for any length of time!

And for male virgins? Who cares! If he's 18 and hung, and hasn't figured out what goes where, what do the forces of evil want with him, anyway?

Despite the amazingly unanticipated hardships endured in finding actual virgins for sacrifice, he eventually did find a few.

They were sheep. And they wouldn't have been virgins, if the Ram hadn't wandered off a cliff, thinking the sunset was a particularly pretty Ewe, in heat. Yes, sheep are that dumb. Nonetheless, they were bona fide virgins.

Skeeter's appeal this time went straight to Lucifer. When Lucifer arrived in the pentagram, horny and ready, and found only rapidly cooling mutton? He was far, FAR less than pleased.

He looked at Skeeter, and said,

"Skeeter, old sport? Admit it: you don't really practice the dark arts for the power, now do you?"

Skeeter's screams as the Lord of Demons pleasured himself on Skeeter's mortal body for a year were heard around the world. But everyone thought it was just Mt. Krakatoa, erupting. And in a way, it was. But the Volcano was Lucifer, and the Earth was Skeeter's body, allegorically, of course. And the lava that endlessly spilled, overflowing, hot, boiling into the sea, was ... well, use your imaginations, on that one, dear reader.

Luckily for Skeeter (for some limited values of luck) it was now 1883. The Dawn of Modern Medicine. Skeeter's body was found floating, naked, ravished, sunburned, dehydrated, in the ocean by a freighter. So poor was his condition, even the crew took no liberties with his unconscious body.

Well, not many. None to write home about, anyway. Nothing out of the ordinary. A bit of sodomy, despite his feeble protests. And even those were so feeble, they did little to excite the crew. Several of them even legitimately believed Skeeter was asking for it, so feeble were his protests. It had to be consent. Right?

Skeeter found his way to a Hospital in the South Pacific. The nurses there cared for him, attended to his illnesses, and gradually nursed him back to health. Several nurses earned their places in Heaven, with the level of care they gave him, to give him a reason to live.

No, stop smiling, dear reader. It was, literally, hot and sweaty, arduous work on the parts of all involved. Nobody had any joy, in this healing. Skeeter least of all! By this point in his wretched existence, Skeeter hardly realized what heterosexual intercourse was even for! It all just left him drained, exhausted, and sore.

Pretty much the same can be said for the nurses, too. And fortunately, no pregnancies resulted from these endeavors. Though Skeeter was singularly motivated to improve his health to escape the (vaginal!) clutches of the nurses!

Which, sadly, he did. He threw himself to the sea, entrusting the forces of Evil to carry his miserable body far from the ravenous appetites of the nursing staff!

He washed ashore on Baker Island. Which is about as far East as you can get before you are going West, again. He washed up on the shore of the island, naked, disheveled, but still breathing, which was good enough for the natives!

The tribe among which he found himself was entirely male. Due to a really tragic misunderstanding of human anatomy and reproduction, the males of the tribe thought women were unclean and unnecessary for reproduction. Something even Skeeter could have told them was in error, if he hadn't found himself with a cock constantly in his mouth, and his ass; while another very confused, yet effeminate young man practiced swallowing his cock.

These were Skeeter's "salad days," if you will. For whatever extent it can be said, in this time, Skeeter, plaything of constantly horny young men satisfying their needs in every orifice of his body, was as close as the old goat was ever going to get to Heaven.

The natives learned that by pulling on his beard, they could make Skeeter suck his own cock, even while they plundered his ass with their own, huge, swollen cocks.

They were all struck by how willingly the old boy went at it, and how grateful he was, even as he was spooned up from behind by his next sexual conqueror, a throbbing, rock-hard cock already pressed into the valley of the crack of his ass. Some say Skeeter is still out there, in those remote South Pacific Islands, granting sexual satisfaction to whatever horny young men come his way. Some say it's just the pigs the Spanish left on those islands, to grow and multiply all those years ago. But some say, no, they've seen the white-haired, skinny old bastard, getting his brains railed out by a cock thrusting in his ass until they both fall over in orgasm.

And this, dear reader, is by far the larger truth of those who would dare trifle with the forces of evil.

And while you may think Skeeter's fate was lamentable, from a charitable point of view? It's far, FAR worse for the women who dare invite evil into their bed. Consider this: there was only one Morgan LaFey. There was only one Lady Macbeth. Look what happened to them. And they were the successful ones!

The lesson could not be any clearer, mortals: Mess with evil? Most likely, you're the one who is going to get fucked.

So, choose wisely!

End