by Edward Lee
Vera napped in annoying snatches. With The Inn closed, she decided it might be a good idea to catch up on her sleep, for certainly she’d gotten very little in the past months—at least not good sleep, sound sleep. The effort proved futile. Each time she lay down, she’d waken moments later pestered by lewd dreams. Par for the course, she thought. The fantasy of The Hands was always there, bristling, hot, erotic. Even after she’d awakened, she swore she could still feel their afterimage: roughly investigating her sex, kneading her breasts as if to squeeze out milk, fingers invading her rectum. Once she’d wakened to find herself masturbating so frantically, she’d rubbed her sex sore. Another time she’d alighted from her slumber to find herself sopped with a sheen of what she first thought was semen. But that was ridiculous. It must only be sweat. She’d been sweating a lot lately.
Upon each waking she sipped a shot of Grand Marnier, hoping the heavy alcohol content would soon drag her to full sleep. Twice she showered, to blast off the sticky sweat, but on both occasions she found that, as her hands coursed soap suds about her body, she’d wind up touching herself. She felt in a trance. Without even knowing it at first, her fingers teased her to paltry yet preposterously successive orgasms. Each climax felt like the next pearl on the string being extracted from her sex. The sensation seemed to never end, yet it never left her satisfied. It always left her longing for something more, something succulent and sating.
Goddamn, Vera. You’re becoming a compulsive masturbator! In the past she’d hardly ever masturbated at all. Paul, whether with his penis or his tongue, had always slaked her needs. But that brought up another dim thought. Paul.
She felt so confused about everything in her life now she wanted to scream. The only love she’d ever had in her life was him. Was she being gullible and stupid, as Donna had implied? Or was there something to his story?
When she looked at the clock, she saw it was past midnight, which came as a sharp shock. Had she really slept the entire day away? Had she become so maladjusted that she’d forget her responsibilities? Not that she had many right now. The Inn was closed. She still felt infuriated that she’d never been able to find Feldspar. And why would he tell her that he was using the last suite in the hall when the last suite in the hall clearly had never been occupied? So many things seemed to be adding up to a false figure.
She took a bath, sipped more GM, and slept again. Snow pelted silently against the panes of her window; the heat in the room felt smothering, and the vents ticked. Half drifting off, she could swear she heard the now-familiar thunking of the room-service elevators, but that couldn’t be.
The Inn was closed.
That’s what she’d been told. That’s what Kyle had told her, and Dan B. too. She’d even, earlier, looked out on the front door and read the apologetic sign: The Inn is closed due to unanticipated repairs. We regret any inconvenience.
Still…her dream.
When she plummeted to full sleep, The Hands were on her at once. They flipped her onto her back in the dark, one hand pinching a nipple as the other plied her buttocks. Simultaneously, a tongue which felt huge attentively laved her from anus to navel, then plodded into her sex. Her fluids seemed to gush. As turned on as she was, she felt an accommodating shame: The Hands roused to abuse her, pinching her nipples till she yelped, slapping her face. Then the large, warm body slid atop her. The tongue licked her open eyes while The Hands alternately girded her throat and yanked her hair. Her dream-suitor’s genitals sunk so deeply into her sex that she stiffened as if gored; its sheer size stole her breath. But at least now her satisfaction was at hand—the veined shaft pummeled her, each stroke finishing to nudge the bulb of her cervix. The mouth sucked her lips as if to eat them as handfuls of hair were seized and pulled. Vera came in a series of detonations, and when she could come no more, The Hands rearranged her and coaxed the stiffened genitals to her lips. She chuckled in her throat, delighted at the flavor of her own musk as she intently sucked upon a penis that felt almost too large to admit into her mouth. One hand stroked the unseen buttocks while her other cradled testicles that seemed like twin tomatoes on a vine. When the saline gobs emptied into her throat, she swallowed them greedily and without a flinch…
And when she awoke…
Was that the door she heard clicking closed in the dark?
No. It was just the heater.
Winter twilight shone mutely in her window. Flakes of snow burst to melt upon each impact to the panes.
Again, she’d kicked all the bedcovers off and found herself naked and shiny in her own sweat, and the faintest irritation pawed at her stomach.
When she touched her sex, she knew she’d really come; the telltale sensitivity snapped her legs closed like a trap. She leaned up in the dark, feeling plundered, squashed by all the desires that had been so expertly milked from her.
Sleeping again seemed impossible. Would the dream-figure reappear? The idea titillated her, yet at the same time felt terrifying. Surely she couldn’t go through that again; though her desire lately never seemed to abate, there was nothing left now for it to give up. Empty gas tank, she thought, and slid her hand off the damp mount of her pubis.
She flicked on the bedside lamp, looked around. On the antique night table lay the stack of paperback romances by bestselling Melinda Pryce. Vera’d barely cracked them, not because they weren’t well-written, but because they reminded her of all the things she didn’t have in her own life. Beneath them, though, lay the hardback tome. The Complete Compendium of Demons by Richard Long. She’d bought it for Donna but had forgotten to give it to her. Vera slid the book out, flipped idly through it. It was like a dictionary of demonic entities, none of which she’d heard save for Baalzephon, which she remembered from some distant mythology class. And the Ardat-Lil, a ghostly female sex addict from pre-Druidic lore, said to become incarnate by the ritual sacrifice and feasting upon of male genitalia. Names, lithographs, medieval sketches, etc. mystified her as she turned more glossy-stock pages…
Then her eyes snagged upon a single entry.
Her disbelief bloomed.
The entry, in the M’s, read as such:
MAGWYTH.
««—»»
“Come on,” Donna whispered. “Like that.”
Her request resulted in a sensation akin to being gently gutted. Oh, God, that feels good, she thought in excruciating slowness. She didn’t even know exactly what was being done, and she didn’t care. Each night her dreams entreated her to the most robust pleasures, attentions she had never imagined, climaxes the likes of which she had never even conceived. It’s just a dream, she thought. So why should she feel guilty? How could she be cheating on Dan B.? It was just her subconscious. Just dreams.
“It’s just a dream,” she muttered.
She looked down, and to her astonishment, a mouth peeled her lace panties off her groin, then chewed them, then swallowed them. Another, hotter mouth sucked her toes. Next, she was sucking something herself: a penis with a drape of foreskin so abundant it hung off the glans like a long snout. Two more women lay to either side, moaning bliss as they were penetrated by hideous dream-shapes. That’s why Donna knew this was a dream. Instances such as this couldn’t possibly happen in reality, nor could such figures exist. The darkness, conjoined with her drunken haze, obscured the details. But she could make out enough: the figures were only caricatures of men, with every extremity distorted to extremes. Probing fingers seemed a foot long, and so did darkened faces. Not to mention the penises—so many of them!—thrust before her eager mouth. Finally she squinted down and realized the harbinger of her bliss: one figure gently turned an entire fist back and forth in the vault of her sex, whilst tending her clitoris with a tongue like a wet flap of steak.
A bald woman grinned down at her. “Join in!” Donna pleaded as yet another orgasm quaked. Her hand reached out.
“Can’t,” the woman regretted. Her breasts jutted firmly as melons, with dark-pink nipples. Her pubis shined hairless in the crackling cand
lelight. Then a man, equally hairless, joined the woman’s side and put an comradely arm about the woman’s shoulder…
It was Kyle!
His grin radiated like a knife-flash. Erect genitals bobbed as he leaned further to explain: “We’d love to join in, Donna, but we can’t.”
“We’re busy,” added the grinning bald woman.
And Kyle: “We’ve got to get dinner ready.”
What they said made no sense. Donna, though, didn’t care. She felt inclined to concentrate on her lust. Huge penises worked in and out of both of her lower entries, while a third plowed so far down her throat she thought sure it was in her belly. The exploding flood of warmth made her think further, then the slackening member was extracted only to be replaced by another.
In the distance, she noted more figures—inhumanly large eyes widened upon the spectacle of the low bed. They were…
Eating, Donna realized.
The bald man and woman parted, bringing in trays of steaming kabobs, chunky soups, filets of seasoned meats. Seductive aromas wafted in the air. Rich sauces steamed above garnished, silver-plattered helpings.
Yet the main helping seemed to be Donna.
It’s only a dream, she consoled herself.
Next, a penis large as a typewriter platen eased into her sex; a greased fist popped into her rectum. Donna’s orgasms began to beat her to a pulp. Two long fingers stretched her mouth wide as yet another penis dropped strings of semen down her outstretched tongue.
Stringent liquor was poured next into her throat. Her desires rekindled; her breasts swelled in the same way ripe fruits burst to release their gush of seeds. More mouths, a veritable succession of them, lined up to suck her toes, her nipples and navel, her clitoris which ached as though it had been squeezed by a pair of pliers…
“It’s just a dream,” she whispered aloud.
Kyle’s bald head returned to Donna’s field of vision. An amethyst jewel hung from a silver chain about his neck, and when the bald woman joined Kyle, a similar stone glittered like a purple eye sunk into her navel.
“It’s just a dream!” Donna shrieked in unison with the next string of climaxes.
Kyle grinned above her.
“Hey, baby,” he said, “I hate to tell you this, but this ain’t no dream.”
— | — | —
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
MAGWYTH: A unique and immortal factotum, also known as The Servant of Demons. A second-generational demon himself, Magwyth is reported to be the chief purveyor of pleasures for the better-regarded occupants of the abyss. Though God rules in heaven, certainly Satan rules in hell, and his favorites he allows, whenever possible, the utmost liberties. Magwyth, in other words, has been trusted since time immemorial to serve his master’s favorites with whatever pleasures they desire, and at the expense, of course, of the less smiled-upon tenants of the netherworld—a luciferic pimp, in other words.
Vera squinted at the words, faintly amused. Naturally the name Magwyth had flagged her attention. A luciferic pimp, she repeated. The whole thing was just a coincidence…
Magwyth’s appearance is not known, though it is known that he works with underlings, two vassals who assist him with his eternal duties: the Zyramon—the hermaphroditic offspring of the notorious owl-like demon Amon. The Zyramon is known to be quite sexual in her antics, reputed to resemble a beautiful woman, but surprising unsuspecting men with her auxilliary equipment—male genitalia, in other words, which emerge from her feminine recesses at will. Though very passionate, the Zyramon is cunning, brutal, and merciless in her resolve. So, too, is Magwyth’s second underling, the less-resourceful twin brother of the Zyramon: Kyl-Lemi, distinctly male, yet equally murderous. A handsome male figure in human form, Kyl-Lemi’s chief role is to provide Satan’s hirelings with the most exotic culinary delights—hell’s chef!
At this Vera blinked; the coincidence seemed to warp in her mind. Magwyth? she thought. The name of the company Feldspar worked for? And now this satanic chef?
Kyl-Lemi?
Kyle?
A handsome male figure in human form?
She read on:
Magwyth and his pair of helpers are all fully hairless, it is said, since all inhabitants of hell come in such extreme proximity to fire. Long ago, when Magwyth served directly in hell, the zeal of his co-attendants, it is cited, flew off the proverbial handle; it seems that several of Satan’s personal favorite demons were mistaken for pleasure-fodder, and were heinously abused as a result. For this injustice, Satan was infuriated and he banished Magwyth and his two underlings from hell for an indeterminate time—to the earth. Here was Magwyth’s penance for his blunders as overseer: to live in the world, and his job then was to provide Satan’s friends with the pleasures of that same world. Incarnations were allowed for short periods of time, whereupon certain demons were permitted to come into Magwyth’s domains on earth and partake in earthly gluttonies…
Earthly gluttonies? Vera thought.
And more thoughts backtracked. Hadn’t Feldspar said he was on a penance? Hadn’t the implication been that his penance had come about for something akin to blunders as overseer? And hadn’t he told her that Magwyth Enterprises existed to cater to a “select clientele,” and that in the past he’d been reprimanded for getting into trouble with the “authorities?”
Though even in his punishment upon the earth, Magwyth has retained certain privileges—financial security, for one. His lord Satan promised to always provided untold riches for Magwyth’s use—
Another queer snag. Vera couldn’t help but be reminded of the amount of money which no doubt had been sunk into The Inn’s refurbishments, nor could she forget the inexplicably large sum of capital that Magwyth Enterprises had deposited into Waynesville’s local bank…
Then:
Magwyth, in other words, has been condemned to provide for Satan’s favorites until he is back into the good graces of the Prince of Darkness…
Still one more snag. Wasn’t it coincidental that Feldspar himself had used essentially the same terminology: that he’d be transferred to a better inn once he got back into this employer’s—
Good graces? Vera recalled.
She read on.
Magwyth and his two acolytes are, to no surprise, cannibals, and so, too, do the tenants of the abyss enjoy the flavor of human flesh. And in more ways than one—it is Magwyth’s job to provide not only satisfaction for his clients’ bellies but also for their libidos. To put it more bluntly, Magwyth’s duties, during his indeterminate penance, is to also provide Lucifer’s favorites with other manners of earthly delight—not only the taste of human flesh but the sexual satisfaction thereof. The abduction of female humankind is a chief task of Magwyth, to offer to hell’s underlings the opportunity to enjoy the pleasures of fornication…
Vera blinked hard, shook her head. This was some of the worst writing she’d ever read, yet somehow she remained enthralled.
Then she read more slowly, and intently. She made herself read the next passage several times.
Yet Magwyth, in his time on earth, must remain in league with the powers of his acursed lord. The notoriously occult semiprecious gemstone amethyst serves as Satan’s total empowerment to Magwyth. The stone of passion, the gem of surfeit. Magwyth and his pair of acolytes always wear an amethyst to keep them aligned unto the powers of Lucifer…
Vera nearly gagged now. Amethyst, she baldly thought. Feldspar always wore a big amethyst pinky ring. And there could be no mistake: Kyle, too, wore an amethyst. Vera clearly remembered the bright purple stone hung about the man’s neck the night he’d invited her to the pool. And one more thing—
She also remembered the large, finely cut amethyst set into the stone transom above The Inn’s front door…
And the last passage:
Little is actually known on Magwyth, save for the minuscule registry left by certain pre-Druidic settlements. It is known, though, that Magwyth is the offspring of the first earthly generation of the pre-Adami
cs, or the initial foundry of Satan’s failed attempt to rule the physical world. The original Magwyth, according to the early Britonic archives, was originally imprisoned for heinous misdeeds, sentenced, and executed by knife upon an altar of the then-abundant sedimentary rock: feldspar.
— | — | —
CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO
Paul parked off a little layby in the woods rather than The Inn’s parking lot; he wanted to be discreet. He crunched up through the winter thicket. It was starting to snow. When he made it to the elaborate, paved cul-de-sac, he stood gazing up in awe.
The Inn was immense, grandly refurbished, eloquently lit by spotlights planted in the outer yard. It’s a palace, he thought, then noted with some astonishment that the resort’s parking lot was empty save for a beat-up Plymouth station wagon and two Lamborghinis. He traipsed to the huge stone-framed front door, passing granite verandas before high windows. But a sign on the door indicated that The Inn was closed for repairs.
All this money for this big place, and they’re closed? Paul wondered. Was Vera inside now? If so, what was she doing?
An oddity caught his eye: the large, finely cut gem-stone set into the door’s granite transom. Its darkness flashed in the strangest way. Midnight-purple razor-sharp facets. Amethyst, he realized. But the largest amethyst he could ever imagine.
He pulled away, skirted around the front facade. In the center of the cul-de-sac, a heated fountain gurgled, whose splattery noise seemed to follow him along the building’s left wing. He wasn’t even quite sure what he was doing; bitter cold air and some vague impulse propelled him around the corner of the building and down a steep slope. Several times he almost fell, and he had the sensation of submerging into dark. When he came around the bend, though, more floodlights lit the back of The Inn. And behind that, there were only dense woods.