Pure Darkness

by Aja James

  I tried to pull out, get off, but her hold was unbreakable, like a fleshly blob prison. I could get no purchase. My hands sank into yielding fat when I tried to push her away. My face was smothered between her sweaty tits. I couldn’t breathe.

  Was this to be my ignoble end? Suffocated by a fleshly octopus?

  And then I heard it—the sonorous snore.

  The sleeping potion I put in her wine finally took effect. I should have upped the dosage, given her size, and I thought I had already used too much. It was surely enough to bring down an elephant. I didn’t want to kill her, after all. I might aid and abet kidnapping, torture, and all kinds of other evil deeds, but I drew the line at killing.

  But she might just accidentally kill me.

  Finally, her ham-like arms loosened from around me, and her thighs unclenched from my hips. I immediately pulled out and got off, my still tumid cock dripping with her fluids, jutting angrily from my groin.

  I backhanded it a couple of times, then gave it a vicious squeeze that brought tears to my eyes at the sharp, blinding pain. The stupid staff wouldn’t deflate. The unguent I’d used to get it up was too strong, and at this rate, probably wouldn’t wear off for hours. I probably used too much of it. But when I saw who I was supposed to fuck to get what my Mistress needed, I knew the usual amount wouldn’t get the job done.

  I’d never had an erection that wasn’t forced upon me, not as long as I could recall. I could force one on myself if my body needed the release too desperately, but never with another person. So when confronted with a client who made me want to turn my empty stomach inside out at the prospect of being inside her, I had to use extra “force” to get my cock to cooperate.

  I went to the adjoining room where a basin of fresh water sat on a pedestal. I used a rough cloth to wash my body as best I could, especially the ugliest, weakest parts of myself. The parts that brought me the most pain and shame.

  That, and my hole. Including the extra hole when I took the form of a female.

  All humanoids seemed to have something inside their bodies that brought them pleasure. Everyone except me. All my holes ever did was fill to overflowing with pain and humiliation. Every man, woman and thing that fucked me found the trigger for my pain effortlessly.

  Good thing I was inured to it. I felt it. The intensity never lessened with time and endurance. But I was used to it. I expected it. And when I forcefully made my body release with my own hands, I got off on it. It was the only time I did.

  I left the heifer snoring contentedly in her bed and sought out the Mistress to report my progress.

  “Mistress Anunit,” I greeted with my head bowed, sinking to one knee as soon as I entered her chamber.

  “What did I tell you about my new title and role?” she reminded me sharply.

  “Apologies, Priestess of Neith. It will not happen again.”

  She didn’t deign to reply, simply studying an unrolled scroll on the table before her bed. There were many other scrolls scattered on the furs and on the floor. I’d caught her in the middle of a “planning session.” Her nefarious mind was busy at work.

  “Well, I don’t have all day,” she rebuked impatiently. “Report.”

  “The wife of the Envoy from Persepolis revealed what she knew of King Cyrus’ plans for expanding the empire. She paid for…tonight… with her husband’s coins as well as the royal stamp that he uses for official documents. I promised to give it back to her before she leaves in the morning.”

  “Bring it here.”

  I ventured closer, keeping my subservient posture and my eyes focused on the ground.

  The Mistress took the coin pouch and stamp from me, immediately tossing the coins into a corner of the room as if it was nothing. As if my pain and shame that earned it were nothing.

  “This will do,” she said approvingly, turning the heavy, ornate stamp this way and that, examining its authenticity in the candlelight.

  “You’ve become quite useful to me, Creature,” she murmured, one perfectly manicured, long-fingered hand reaching out to grip my hip, pulling me closer.

  “Did it feel good?” she asked, probing me with her hypnotic, serpent-like gaze. “Did you enjoy it?”

  Fuck no. But I’d learned by now never to tell her anything remotely close to the truth if I could help it.

  “Yes,” I answered with what I hoped was a sexually gratified smirk. “What male doesn’t like to mix business with pleasure? Kill two birds with one stone? I’m all about efficiency.”

  She eyed the tented front of my trousers.

  Damn it! I should have waited for my erection to die down before coming to her, but then she’d wonder why I dallied, get impatient, and punish me for the delay.

  “You’re still hard,” she noted with a peculiar gleam in her eyes.

  This was never a good thing—for the recipient of the gleam.

  “My passions run amuck sometimes, what can I say?”

  I didn’t think the Mistress knew how much it cost me to perform the acts she demanded. If she did, she’d just make me do more of it until “the mental barrier was overcome.”

  “Show me.”

  Fuck me. She was in one of those moods. There were times when she showed interest in me beyond simply being her tool and whore. I’d proven over the millennia of our “acquaintance” that my brain was more useful to her than my body.

  But sometimes…

  I stood immediately before her and untied my trousers, pushing them down past my hips to reveal my jutting erection. It was inches away from her face.

  She licked her full, plump lips.

  Everyone who looked upon the Mistress appreciated her dazzling beauty, but to me, she was a poisonous, dangerous, vile and ugly serpent. With pillow-like red lips hiding dagger-sharp fangs.

  “Magnificent specimen,” she murmured, staring at my tumescent male part with avarice, her eyes getting crossed the longer she stared.

  “Is this your true form?”

  “Yes,” I answered immediately.

  It wasn’t.

  “That’s what you say whenever I ask.”

  “And it’s always the truth. Every form is my form. It is not as if I’ve taken another person’s body. It is my body.” My body that got fucked, cut, used and abused.

  She slitted her eyes and gave me a hard look.

  I looked impassively back at her.

  She sighed, her hot breath fanning over my groin, making me twitch unpleasantly. On the bright side, she was not curious enough about my real form and face to continue pursuing this train of thought.

  “I’ve made many fortunes off of this cock, even if it isn’t really yours,” she smirked. “Your sexual exploits and depravities know no bounds.”

  “I aim to please,” I quipped nonchalantly, injecting boredom into my voice.

  She continued to stare and assess, one hand reaching beneath my staff to cup and roll my balls.

  I gnashed my teeth and stayed still, trying to suppress the bile of revulsion that was surging up my esophagus.

  “I suppose I’ve accumulated enough wealth to not miss the income from your sex over the next few years,” she muttered, seemingly to herself. “But what a pity. People pay anything—everything—to have the fantasy only you can provide. My gorgeous shapeshifting whore.”

  I remained silent. What could I possibly say to that? Was this all I was? Her tool, her whore?

  One day, when I finally passed on from this world (likely killed violently given the company I kept and the enemies my Mistress made), would people remember me as that “gorgeous shapeshifting whore”? Most likely I wouldn’t be remembered at all. So I guess all these conjectures were moot.

  “Do you have a new assignment for me, Priestess?” I asked instead, focusing on the business at hand.

  She finally clutched my staff hard with the same hand that squeezed my balls like ripe fruit at the market. She dug her sharp nails into the thin, sensitive
skin and casually dragged five bloody streaks into the engorged column from root to tip.

  I turned my groan of pain into a breathy moan of pleasure to mask her effect on me.

  She held my eyes as she sucked my blood off of every finger, one by one.

  “Mmm,” she murmured, savoring my taste. “There’s something about you. Your blood is heady, effervescing with power. Yet polluted too. Dirty. Gritty. Bitter. If I didn’t know for a fact that you’re a ruined freak, I’d feast on your blood and body every day.”

  Never before had I been thankful about being an abomination. But at this moment, I was.

  She flicked her hand in the vicinity of my groin, indicating that I could finally tuck my embarrassment away, which I did efficiently, and stepped back.

  “You will take on a different type of role for me,” she said, finally getting to business. “Can you shift into a smaller body? That of a young boy?”

  I let the edges of my form shimmer a moment before transforming.

  Her eyes lit up with fascination.

  “Perfect. But I want you to take a very specific form. That of the Crown Prince Cambyses of Persia.”

  “I have not seen him in person before,” I said in my young boy form, the pitch of my voice commiserate with the disguise. “I will need to observe and study his mannerisms to impersonate him fully. If that is to be my task?”

  “It is.”

  “May I ask why?”

  “You may not,” was the Mistress’s immediate and firm response. “Just do as I say. Don’t rouse any suspicion. Impersonate the prince well. Make the royal family, especially the king, like you. Make it so that when you suggest any course of action, he will follow it. Do what you must to make that happen.”

  This was nothing new. The Mistress often had tasks like this for me. They typically involved manipulation and maneuvering. Most of the time I could figure out what end game she was playing, at least the end game for a particular chess match, because no one could predict what her ultimate end game was.

  I wondered whether the Mistress herself knew. I suspected that she changed her game depending on circumstances and her own evolving ambitions.

  “How long will I impersonate the Crown Prince?” I ventured another question carefully.

  The Mistress didn’t like to be asked questions.

  “As long as it takes.”

  She speared me with a silencing glare when I was about to open my mouth on another query. I pressed my lips together to maintain silence.

  “You will start immediately. I’ve arranged for the real Crown Prince’s…untimely demise a week of weeks from now. You will travel to Persepolis, infiltrate the inner court, make your observations on all the pertinent players involved, and be ready to take on this new role when I make the switch.”

  I tried to convey my next question with my eyes alone.

  She understood perfectly. I didn’t think she could read my mind, but I could swear she heard my thoughts. After all, a slice of her soul was fused with what was left of mine after the male Before Creature had died a nasty, best-left-forgotten death.

  “I shall remain here in Zau. There is work to be done. Seeds to plant. Wheels to put in motion. You will be alone in Persepolis. Possibly for years, even a decade.”

  My twisted black heart spasmed with something akin to hope. I had a few years, possibly ten, all to myself? Out from beneath the Mistress’s thumb? Yes, I’d still be working for her, executing her wishes, advancing her plots, but…

  Ten years!

  It was a blink of an eye, but it was also an eternity of almost-freedom. It would be the longest she’d let me go on my leash. I could barely contain my glee.

  At which exact moment, the Mistress bared her sharp, poisonous fangs in a warning hiss.

  “Don’t be stupid, pitiful Creature, to think that you could ever escape my influence. I will be watching you. Always. I know what’s inside of you. Because I am inside of you. Don’t ever forget it.”

  I bowed my head in submission and acceptance. But inside, a small kernel of insidious hope foolishly took root.

  It would ultimately destroy me.

  Chapter Thirteen: My Brother, My Friend

  6th Century B.C., Persepolis, Capital City of the Persian Empire.

  The cuckoo (me) was inserted into the nest of regal eaglets, the Achaemenid royal dynasty, when the real Crown Prince Cambyses was seven years-old.

  I’d studied him for several weeks, impersonating various servants and noblemen who came and went in the palace. The real Crown Prince was a spoiled, bratty, mean little fucker, to be honest with you. He was a quintessential bully who wielded his power and privilege like a weapon to oppress others.

  Even the Dark Ones, when they ruled supreme thousands of years ago, didn’t abuse their might so flagrantly. There had been order, control, and the occasional transgression, but rule-breakers were punished severely and swiftly by the Dark Enforcers at the behest of Queen Ashlu. Cambyses got away with everything.

  His father, King Cyrus, turned a blind eye when he tortured servants just for the hell of it. His mother, Queen Cassandane, certainly didn’t interfere (boys will be boys and all that). Besides, she was rather aloof and cold in general to her children and her husband, seemingly lost in her own internal world. His younger siblings gave him a wide berth, thankful that he had servants and slaves to abuse so he didn’t turn his attention to them. And the outer packaging around all that sadistic cruelty was ironically and obscenely beautiful.

  I abhorred him on sight.

  When Mistress Anunit’s henchmen disposed of him when he was out hunting poor forest creatures for the love of the chase and the bloody kill, I didn’t feel even a twinge of conscience as I sometimes did with the Mistress’s schemes. Her purpose was never noble or anywhere near “good,” but she eliminated as many nasty, depraved buggers as innocent, solid citizens. Good riddance to Cambyses, I thought.

  And here’s where I came in.

  When a new (I’d like to think—improved) Cambyses arrived back at the palace with a large lump on his head from being dramatically thrown from his startled horse, his family and personal servants attributed the sudden change in personality to his traumatic accident. I tried to retain some of his mannerisms at least for the first few months, but gradually, I made Cambyses into me.

  This was the longest infiltration I’d ever had to perpetrate for the Mistress. And from such a young age. The Mistress didn’t give me any additional clear, detailed instructions beyond what she’d told me that night. I had to play things by ear on my own and hope that I didn’t fuck anything up.

  I tried to take full advantage of the opportunity, however: living the “good life.” No telling when this little bubble of fantasy might come around again in my unlucky existence, so I might as well indulge myself before it burst.

  I’d never been surrounded by so much luxury, not just in terms of material wealth, abundant food and servants galore who ran, not walked, to do my bidding. But also intellectual stimulation. I’d long ago taught myself to read, write, and work out basic arithmetic. But here, at the palace, in the epicenter of one of the greatest empires known to man, I had access to the best tutors and libraries.

  I absorbed everything I could. The acquisition and mastery of knowledge were addictive and thrilling. Languages, arts, literature, math, science, history, astronomy… whatever I had a curiosity in—and I was curious about everything—I had a tutor, or one would be immediately found for me, to help me pursue the topic to my heart’s content. I couldn’t get enough of it. Day and night I studied.

  This strange behavior did not go unnoticed. The penchant for erudition, apparently, was not indigenous to Cambyses’ persona.

  In the beginning, the royal family blamed it on his hunting accident. But when this alarming proclivity continued, the king, in particular, became concerned. Knowledge was well and good, but the purpose of it was to strengthen a militaristic, conquering
mind and body. An entire package that would take over the ruling mantle of the empire, expand it, and propagate the Achaemenid line.

  The physical part of all this was unfortunately not my forte.

  But to sustain a lie for so long, for years, without slipping, I could only turn the lie into truth. I could only be myself. Even Cambyses’ outer appearance melded into a version of my own true form over time. He was a boy when he disappeared. No one could predict how he would grow up. So, I took the form of boys I saw inside and outside of the palace who had similar coloring and gradually changed Cambyses’ looks as he “grew older.”

  There was one boy in particular who fascinated me, the son of one of the King’s lowest-ranked concubines: Dalair.

  I’d seen him around the outer compounds of the palace where the slaves and their offspring dwelled. His mother’s name was Vashti.

  I knew because I made it my business to know everything about everyone. No telling when a piece of information would become useful. But also because Vashti was by far the most beautiful of all of the king’s concubines. And that was saying something, because he collected the fairest maidens from across the vast empire and even beyond. Yet, it wasn’t simply because she was physically alluring; it was the light in her eyes and the irrepressible joy glowing brightly from within. Her inner flame was what set her far apart from any other beauty in the palace.

  And the same was true of her son. Though his attraction was less from joy, more from strength.

  I’d seen enough of the world, over thousands of years of existence, to recognize pure, innate goodness in a being. Both Vashti and Dalair had it. I was both in awe and contempt of them for it.

  I noticed how jealous others were of Vashti and her equally beautiful son, who was only a year older than Cambyses. Vashti bore the brunt of the other “ladies”’ taunts and abuse. The son was regularly cornered and beaten by boys much bigger and older than him. It was only the knowledge that he was King Cyrus’ bastard, and she was his favorite concubine, that barely protected them from more serious and permanent damage. Like death.