by Jillian Rose
“Let us commence the ritual. Damien, lead the flock meditations. Verse one of blood of the lamb.” The woman said in between kisses.
“Bl…Blood of the lamb? Are you sure, Sister se—”
“Yes!” The sister said impatiently. Cynthia looked at the man, who’s eye’s were completely dilated now, as where Sephora’s. They were all tripping. “Make sure we have this documented. Brother Simon will want to witness this.” She said excitedly to someone in the corner. Cynthia saw that one of the brothers, one who wasn’t paired with a woman, was holding a video camera, panning it around the room. She was okay with all of this. She didn’t care about the circumstances. She pulled the woman towards her. The woman was surprisingly strong, her arms held Cynthia tight as they kissed, before Cynthia was swept off her legs and carried over to the middle of the large symbol she’d seen painted in the floor.
As the woman lowered her, gently, like she was handling an infant, she heard the group begin to chant. Some far away part of Cynthia’s mind recognized it as Latin, but she was too caught up in the tactile sensations and visual stimuli to sus out the meaning. Soon all rational thought was obliterated as she felt the two probing tips of bifurcated tongue find her pussy, first tracing her labia before joining and centering on the throbbing pearl of her clitoris. Cynthia was momentarily robbed of breath when this happened. She felt like she’d just been struck by lightening, the sensation was so intense. She closed her eyes and let herself collapse against the floor as the woman’s tongue did incredible things.
She opened her eyes just as she was about to achieve her first orgasm, and saw the woman on her knees between her legs, the tongue working in tight circles while her hands caressed Cynthia’s thighs and stomach. She saw that everyone around her was engaged in some kind of sexual act, and witnessed Sharon scissoring with one of the other women, all of them repeating the chant, their voices becoming raspier and more breathy as they went on. It took on a pleasant rhythmic cadence that set the tempo to their love making, and she realized everyone’s movements were in time with this tempo. Even Sister Sephora’s tongue strokes were in time. Sanguis autem Agni, venite bibendum. Every syllable felt like the bass beat at a club, becoming a physical thing. To Cynthia it began to feel like the whole house was breathing with their words, uttering it with them, like it was alive.
Then all of these thoughts evaporated as the charging ball of climax finally erupted, and she felt her whole body clench, a fireball of warmth spreading throughout her, her clitoris feeling as if it was emitting lightning bolts with how intense the tingling sensation was. Her toes curled and her hands scrabbled at the hard wood floors, trying to get a grip as the orgasm threatened to hurl her off into oblivion. For an unknowable amount of time, orgasmic bliss nearly drove her mad, until finally she felt the tide of it’s power ebb to a trickle.
“Excellent.” The woman said, her voice sounded strange, modulated. She brought herself up and mounted Cynthia missionary style. Cynthia looked down at her body, saw that the words she saw scribed across the woman’s breasts in black ink were the same one’s she heard coming from their voices. Then she stared down at the woman’s misshapen cock, which was fully erect now, the tiny head bright and pink against the thick base of it’s shaft. Cynthia looked at it for a long time, before she realized the thing for what it was, a massive, overgrown clitoris. She blinked stupidly as she took in this realization.
“Yes, that’s right.” Sephora said, as if reading her mind, stroking the long pink organ that jutted from her crotch. She lifted it up, so Cynthia could see the pink gash just underneath the base of the cock. Both the tiny tip of her cock and the opening of her vagina drooled the same milky substance, it was one of the most jarring signs of arousal that Cynthia had ever seen. “Some call me deformed. Some have called me a freak. Some have undergone radical surgery to look just like me, because they believe me to be a god.” She said, and laughed at this. “I suppose this last is the closest. Although none of them have really ever seen my other side. But they are about to see. Let them judge for themselves if what they bear witness to is the work of god.” She said, shouting this over the cacophony of rapturous yelled Latin that pounded against the room walls, the audio waves seeming to go into and through Cynthia, the way she could feel the air pressure from her bass player’s huge full stack when he really cranked it.
Sephora grabbed Cynthia’s face, and forced her to maintain eye contact with her as she entered Cynthia’s now thoroughly moist cavern. She was once again robbed of breath as she felt the mounting pressure down below build, build, until there came a definite, pop, a tear, and she cried out momentarily. The hermaphrodite’s eyes grew wide as her cock ruptured the hymen, and she slowly exited, looking down at the diluted blood that coated her cock.
“qui mittendus est agnus!” She shouted, her voice somehow carrying over the rapturous cacophony of the group chant, which had reached an ungodly volume. They stopped suddenly, all of them frozen in various postures and tangles of limbs. “Qui mittendus est agnus…” She said again in a quiet, reverent tone, before lowering herself to lick up Cynthia’s blood. She gasped as she felt the two prong tongue enter her, drink greedily of her essence. When Sephora once again rose up to look at her congregation, Cynthia noticed the woman’s head and shoulders were different now, more pronounced, new angles and edges that weren’t there prior.
“Oh yes…That is good.” She said, blood smearing her lips and cheeks. The serpent tongue came out, cleaning the blood from her lips, her eyes rolling to the back of her head for a moment, relishing the taste as if it were pure ambrosia. Then, with a shudder, she thrusted back inside of Cynthia. Despite it’s strange tapered shape, her walls still hugged the member tightly as the cock ventured where no one had ever been. At first there was pain, but as she continued, the pain turned into a strangely pleasant fullness that began to increase with every thrust.
The crowd started up their chanting again, this time speaking the new phrase that Sephora had uttered. Qui mittendus est agnus. The lamb has been bled. That snatch of phrase came up from all the sexual chaos surrounding Cynthia, a phrase she’d heard in one of her philosophy classes from some other dimension. Was she the lamb being bled? What did that have to do with sexual energy? Her deductive mind, the one that got her into WashU in the first place, couldn’t fathom such things however, as the woman began to thrust harder, taking one of her hands, who’s fingers seemed to grow longer and more claw like, and placed it on her pelvis, a many knuckled thumb joint stroking Cynthia’s throbbing pearl as she thrusted deep and hard.
The element of penetration added a whole new dimension to Cynthia’s understanding of climax. There was a bone deep sense of release with every thrust, like scratching an invisible itch you couldn’t find for the longest time, or finally rubbing loose a knot in a muscle that had eluded you and caused you pain for days. Combined with the clitoral stimulation, it was like experiencing a whole new flavor of sex. Sweat sheened on Sephora’s skin, and her slick flesh was pressed against Cynthia’s as she lowered herself to kiss the woman , her pierced nipples rubbing and tickling against Cynthia’s own. Cynthia wrapped her arms around the torso, which felt much more muscular and barrel chested than before, but didn’t care about this perceived change. She was getting close now, every stroke building up that same charging ball of sensation and pleasure, except this was no longer the surface level, quick flash burn of a clitoral climax. She felt the cock growing bigger and harder inside of her, swelling to new dimensions, something deep within her being steadily hammered away at.
She was faintly aware that the painted lines she laid on were heating up, and when she looked down at the floor next to her, she saw the lines and painted words were glowing a dull blood red. Cynthia blinked, trying to tell if she was hallucinating this or not. Then those long talon like hands were in her hair, pulling her to meet Sephora’s eyes once again. Looking into those dilated pupils was like staring into the abyssal chasm at the bottom of the ocean. Looking int
o them gave her a sense of vertigo, and she had the feeling of falling with Sephora in her arms, the two of them stumbling into space, falling away from the earth. She felt herself leave her body, leave this whole place.
Chapter 3.
What brought Cynthia back to her dimension, to the small cramped room where 10 sweating bodies surrounded her in a writhing mass of limbs and flesh was the first hot jet of lava that erupted within her. She could feel that narrow head swelling and pulsating, the whole organ lurching with each powerful expenditure. Sephora was screaming with each pulsation. Cynthia was fully in her climax now, the semen that erupted inside of her hot enough, and her walls sensitive enough for it to act as a catalyst to spark the blazing conflagration of her orgasm. She was screaming too, screaming from the whole body surging of each intense orgasmic wave. Her loins were a hot, throbbing epicenter of a quaking bliss that bordered on painful from how intense it was. But her screams were lost over the sound of Sephora’s, which became more and more bestial with each pump, her features contorting into something inhuman.
She was still holding onto the woman as this transformation occurred, feeling the spine crack and contort into a bowed, hump shape. The ribs shifted underneath the skin to make way for new, infernal anatomy. The cock swelled and throbbed inside of her, elongating, growing wider, deeper, until finally the woman beast had to pull her huge member out. It had grown purple and mottled, the tip spurting a thick white fluid that also gushed from between Cynthia’s legs when the cock departed, letting the torrent that had been pumped inside of her flow freely.
One of the cult members had lurched forward, a woman, and clambered to mount Sephora. Cynthia realized it was Sharon. Sephora now resembled one of the gargoyle statues she’d seen in the yard than a human, and she wanted to cry out as Sharon squatted down, eagerly trying to get the almost two foot cock inside of her. She managed, the steady stream of ejaculate now flowing into her.
“Yes, sister Sharon, receive the sacrament of the Shepherd. You have done good bringing me a ripe vessel to germinate. So good.” She said, grasping the woman and picking her up, holding the woman close to her and giving one savage thrust, the impossibly long cock sinking all the way up to the hilt inside of Sharon. She screamed, but only held on tighter as a milky white pink fluid began to gush from her legs as blood mixed with the thing’s foul seed. A tale made from what looked to be human vertebrate had erupted from the base of Sephora’s back, just above the buttocks. The open wound it created bled freely, as did the two calcified horns that erupted from her forehead.
“Sharon!” Cynthia tried to scream, but no one listened to her.
“My life for the Shepherd!” Sharon screamed before Cynthia saw Sephora’s head split in two as the jaws grew impossibly wide, like a python’s distended jaws. She saw teeth that were more canine than human sprout from the growing maw. Sharon twitched as the cock grew inside of her, no doubt sundering organs and causing massive internal bleeding. Her screams of rapturous joy were cut off however as the jaws closed around her head. There was a great tearing sound, followed by wet sundering noises as Sharon’s head was torn off.
The woman beast thing then shoved the corpse off of her, her massive cock coated in entrails and blood. It began to droop and shrink as it’s great expenditure had finally concluded. She aimed the spurting stump at the congregation, who had not ceased in their fucking even as all this went on.
“You must bathe in sister Sharon’s essence. Let us remember her for blessing us with an able bodied surrogate!” She screamed, her voice deep, modulated, an inhuman baritone that thundered off the walls. They did as commanded, lathering themselves in the blood that spurted from the still twitching corpse, until they were one giant writhing indistinguishable mass of crimson limbs.
Cynthia screamed. She kept on screaming until her vocal chords blew out, and even then she couldn’t stop from letting out a grating croak as the ceremony concluded, and they cleaned her up, and then took her to a special room in the basement of the house. It turns out she wasn’t alone, another woman was down there with her, kept in a sort of prison. Her belly distended with a painfully large mass that Cynthia refused to believe was a baby. But she soon learned it was. And that she was a part of something much bigger than herself.
The flock of the Golden Shephard had grand plans, and Cynthia was now a cog in their wheel.
Part 3. Of Lust and Lilith
Chapter 1.
Ian approaches the shop, notices it is right next to Washington University campus, which is a good sign. Usually the more academic they were, the more legit the “private” sections of the library were. Ian entered, and was greeted with the comforting smell of aged books, with a slightly musty undertone of very aged books. It was cool and dry in there, as were most of the private reserve libraries he’d entered. Ian assumed it helped keep the older books from decaying even further. There are only two other people in the place besides Ian, not including the old clerk at the mahogany wooden counter. He looks up over horn rimmed spectacles when he sees the gaunt young man enter. He smiles and nods.
“Welcome to Abner’s Reserve Stock and Library. How can I help you?” he croaked. Ian walked over to the counter, his eyes peering over the rows and rows of books. He knew from the online listing that this was a specialty book shop, where only rare and hard to find texts were stored. Biographies on obscure people, blasphemous religious texts, tomes on the occult, self published memoirs from infamous criminals and madmen, and grimoires with arcane instructions for spells and summoning certain super natural entities. It was this latter that tied into his mission. He had been to five others just like it across the country, in search of two specific books. Books containing information that would hopefully change his life for the better.
“Ah yes, I was hoping you could help me find a certain text. My name is Ian Goldman, I believe we spoke on the phone… You are Abner himself, correct?” Ian asked. The man chuckled nervously, comprehension, and with it, anxiety, dawning on his old leather face.
“Ah Yes… Mr. Goldman, the one who inquired about The book of Magus…”
“And also the seventh edition of Luciferian pedagogy: Techniques and Invocations by Sir Saint Francis Wycombe” Ian said automatically. He had inquired about the texts so many times he didn’t have to look up their long titles anymore. The old man cleared his throat.
“Right. And which university did you say you belonged too?”
“No university. I mean, I graduated from Berklee with a Masters in Music Composition, but that’s unrelated. This is an independent inquiry by a… Self driven academic.” Ian said. Abner paused, sizing up Ian for a long moment. He saw a clean cut twenty something year old man in an Armani suit, with leather shoes and bright white teeth that alluded to someone of great wealth. Cool blue eyes regarded Abner with something like mild contempt, annoyance at his questions.
“…I see. Well Mr. Goldman, I must tell you, I am not keen to open up the vault unless it’s for serious inquiries. Some of these texts are very very old, you see, and any exposure to oxygen degrades them fu—”
“This is, a serious inquiry.” Ian said, cutting him off. “There is information I am seeking that is of vital importance to me.” At this Abner swallowed thickly, a thin smile on his face as he noticed the young man’s jaw clenching.
“Yes…But… “ Abner began to protest, but Ian sighed, and took out his wallet, producing eight hundred dollars, the bills crisp and clean, fresh out of the ATM. He handed the money to Abner casually, as if he were lending a friend a few dollars to cover a meal.
“I looked up your salary before coming here because I figured you’d either have too many questions or raise a fuss. I also know your wife is currently dying of stage four lung cancer and the radiation treatments are draining your bank account.” He said, putting the money in Abner’s hand when the stunned man didn’t at first take the bills. Abner blinked, seemed to consider it, and pocketed the money. “Smart man.” Ian said.
“Right
this way.” Abner said with some reluctance, and led Ian Goldman towards the very back of the shop. On their way back there, Abner turned to look at Ian.
“And what does a young man such as yourself want with a medieval spell book written by a heretic priest, and an instructional book on teaching satanism written by an absolute madman?” Abner asked. Ian stared straight ahead as he talked.
“That money was not only supposed to buy my access to those books but also your silence on the matter.” Ian said impatiently. Abner sighed and kept walking. There was a hallway that led down to a room encased in clear glass. On one side of the glass wall was a digital panel that Ian knew controlled the oxygen saturation and humidity in the hermetically sealed room. He had been to several rooms just like it before. There was a small supply closet off to the left, and Abner reached in to grab a box of rubber gloves, and head caps like what doctors wore during surgery. Ian was instructed to wear both while the room’s vacuum reach equilibrium.
Once the proper attire was dawned, they entered, Abner closing the door behind him. There were only five shelves in here, each book encased in a plastic sleeve. Not wasting any time, Abner took Ian to the third row of shelves, this one labelled “OCCULT/RELIGIOUS/MISC”. He brought out two thick volumes, one in a moldering tanned leather bound, the other bound in a black, almost seal skin like material. Ian’s eyes widened at each book, their titles barely legible. Abner removed the first one, The Book of Magus, and brought it over to the only piece of furniture in the room: a large mahogany table. He gently set it down on the table and did the same thing with Luciferian Pedagogy.
Gloved hands trembling, Ian opened Magus first. The pages looked to be made of Papyrus, the diagrams and scripts within faint but legible. He flipped through a few pages, examining the writing, but not for long. He did the same with Luciferian Pedagogy.