The Fire Dance of Yog-Sothoth By David Holly
(Note: The Fire Dance of Yog-Sothoth is the title story from a collection of my writings. Check my website http://gaywriter.org for more information.)
The drumming had begun five days previously. We five, Mr. Wilkes-Johnson, Dr. Blair Bevington, the explorer Sam Ford, the young Reverend Peter Reed, and I, Harp Ahearn, a graduate student in anthropology, were the only true humans on the expedition, and the drumming was getting on our nerves. Our seven mock-human guides pretended they didn't hear the steady pulse beating through the hideous flora.
Sweat running in rivulets down his face, Wilkes-Johnson lifted his hands toward the green fog drifting around us. When he moved, his shirt shredded up the back and under his arms. "This shitty planet," he swore.
"Please, sir," Reverend Peter Reed remonstrated.
"Goddamn, preacher," Sam Ford jumped in. "What the hell do you expect the man to say. Everything we have is rotting. The metal is rusting. Our clothes are shredding like tissue paper. The straps on our packs won't last out the day, even if anything we're carrying is worth saving. Even the glass bottles containing water and food are etching."
"It's a good thing the path is like a springy carpet--loathsome but springy," I contributed. "My boots completely rotted away yesterday." The ground was springy soft, but every footstep created a rising a pungent odor. "At least we can walk comfortably barefoot."
My anthropology professor, Dr. Bevington, grunted with distress and stepped to the side of the trail. I hurt for him, but we were all suffering the same symptoms. Even though we ate and drank only what we had carried with us, the air itself was polluted. Every breath worked its way through our bodies. Dr. Bevington yanked down his shorts, which split into three pieces. He squatted over the spongy ground, almost weeping so great was his distress.
"Ugh, the unholy stench," Reverend Peter Reed complained, holding his nose. Hardly were the words out then a blast of gaseous diarrhea struck him. He did not manage to pull off his shorts in time. "Oh, crap, I blew a hole right through my shorts," the reverend swore. Despite the hideousness of the situation, I could not help laughing. I had been chuckling over the Reverend Peter Reed's inconsistencies during our whole voyage, and this one was the final straw. Even Dr. Bevington laughed as he tried ineffectively to wipe himself with the remnants of his clothing.
Say what one may about Peter Reed, the young reverend had a sense of humor. On top of that, he was courageous beyond measure. Sometimes his religious sensibilities came to the forefront, but he was deep down a realistic man with a deep well of courage. No poltroon would join an exploration such as ours.
"We're going native now, Bevington," Peter Reed said. He pointed toward our guides who wore nothing to cover their frogfish skin.
"Fuck it, let's all go naked," Sam Ford insisted. "These rotting clothes are eating into our skin. And let's abandon everything except for food and water."
"The directional equipment. Our journals," Wilkes-Johnson protested.
"Have you checked the condition of either today?" I asked pulling strips of rotting cloth from my body. The paper turned into dust and the equipment is too corroded to function as a paperweight."
"How do we find out way back to our spaceship?"
We could not meet each other's eyes; Wilkes-Johnson had asked the dreaded question. At last, my professor's eyes met mine, which broke the silence. Sam Ford shrugged fatalistically. "We're just screwed."
"That's the pisser, isn't it?" Wilkes-Johnson muttered. "Forget I asked that question, fellows. I guess we all know the answer. By now, this planet's atmosphere has so buggered our wrecked spaceship that it'll never fly again. We're stuck here for good. Unless we're rescued, which isn't bloody likely since we went off the charts when that wormhole whipped us out of the solar system."
Naked and hopeless, we trudged onward. We walked as the planet's gigantic red sun set, a surmised event due to the thick mushy foliage. We walked as darkness deepened. We walked as we grew more exhausted and every muscle urged us to stop. But whenever one of us suggested we rest until daylight, our native guides urged us onward. Their urging was so insistent that we knew that they had knowledge that we did not possess, and that we had to press onward.
The sound of the drumming increased. After we had been walking along the pitch-dark path for about two hours, we saw a lurid glow ahead. At length, we reached a precipice where we lay on our stomachs and looked over the edge. An enormous circle of fire dominated the plain below us. The fire circle's radius must have been the length of a basketball court or an Olympic sized pool. Hundreds of worshipers danced naked around the fire, which our improving vision soon confirmed came from an enormous pit.
As they danced, aliens of a thousand species chanted a ritual formula: "Ph'nglui mglw'nafh Cthulhu R'lyeh wgah'nagl fhtagn."
A group of men, too many to count, surrounded the fire pit, fell onto their knees, placed their elbows on the hot, fetid ground, and presented their naked asses to the flames. "Cthulhu fhtagn. Ph'nglui mglw'nafh Cthulhu R'lyeh wgah'nagl fhtagn. Cthulhu fhtagn. Ph'nglui mglw'nafh Cthulhu R'lyeh wgah'nagl fhtagn. Cthulhu fhtagn."
"I've heard these words before," Mr. Wilkes-Johnson mused. "Oh, bugger."
"I know what this is," Dr. Blair Bevington asserted, his tone indicating growing horror and fascination.
"This is the ultimate evil," Reverend Peter Reed moaned.
Sam Ford raised his eyebrows at me, but I shook my head. I had no more idea than he did. "What the hell?" Sam asked.
"Better not to know," Peter Reed whispered. "Better to remain in blissful ignorance than to have foreknowledge." If he intended that remark to comfort us, he missed his mark entirely.
As we watched, the tempo of the drumming increased to a feverish pitch. The dancers danced more wildly, while the men circling the fire pit wiggled their asses as if they were inviting some unspeakable act. The diversity of the men struck me. These aliens represented every conceivable planet, and some utterly implausible. Their only commonalities were their roughly humanoid appearance and their masculine gender.
"Cover your eyes, Harp," Dr. Bevington urged. "I think this is the moment."
I wouldn't have covered my eyes had doing so spirited me back safe in my bed in my dormitory in Arkham, Massachusetts. As I watched, the fire grew in the pit, grew and rose up higher, swelling its reddish tongues lofty. Then I saw the tentacles writhing out of the flames. Some monster lived down in that pit of fire, some salamander that put forth glowing orange tentacles that slithered toward the men facing away from the pit.
"What grisly sacrifice is this?" I demanded, shouting over the thunderous drums, the frenzied dance, and the howling chant.
"Cthulhu fhtagn!" Wilkes-Johnson gasped. "Oh, bugger us jointly or severally, they're chanting Cthulhu fhtagn. Oh, the ultimate bugger."
I turned around to see how our guides were reacting, and the scene that met my eyes staggered me. The seven mock-humans had formed a train, and each had his inhuman cock plugged into the anus of the one before him. The train of monstrous flesh was rocking back and forth, each individual taking the cock of his fellow. Shub, the first in line, was facing me. Looking into Shub's eyes expecting to see shame, disgrace, and horror as another pounded his ass, I was stunned to see that the alien's face was painted with unspeakable bliss.
"Sam," I yelped, grapping the explorer's bare arm.
Sam Ford sneered at the butt-fucking aliens, but his tone was less judgmental. "Looks like those fellows are having a good time, Harp." I suspected the sneer had been for the reverend's benefit because Peter Reed had just noticed the goings-on behind him.
"Providence forefend this scourge," Peter Reed gasped.
"Have you ever seen anything like that, Harp?" Sam Ford whispered. "I mean, back there at that college you go to."
Sam Ford had noticed what the others had not--I hoped. The scene had aroused me. My cock wasn't in full erection, but it had swollen perceptibly. And the explorer had hit the mark. I had once witnessed such a scene back at the all-male Ivy League Miskatonic University on the myth-heavy Miskatonic River that flows through Arkham. I was approaching the river for a midnight skinny dip after a rather riotous bump supper when I encountered a group of upper-classmen performing an anal daisy chain on the riverbank.
Of course I ran like a goosed ghoul, but ever after I had wondered what it would have been like had I joined the chain gang of the fucked. My cowardice had long been one of my secret regrets. What would it be like to join that rebellious train? To take another fellow's billowy buttocks and slide my cock into his anal cleft and penetrate his exit hole? To push my own bounty back to receive the chap behind me? To experience that shuddering group orgasm? To feel hot wet cum in my ass?
I conveyed nothing of these disgraceful memories or speculations to my companions. Peter Reed was remonstrating against the alien's behavior, while Sam Ford tipped me a lewd wink. Did the explorer read my thoughts? The idea made me uncomfortable, so I turned my back on the alien sex, meaning also that I turned my naked and unprotected ass upon these unfathomable beings, and looked again on the scene below.
The drumming became utter discord. The dancers lost all rhythm and simply flung their bodies into impossible and unmentionable poses. The fire in the pit rose higher as more tentacles emerged and writhed toward the male beings offering their asses in unspeakable sacrifice.
The first of the tentacles reached their targets. As I watched, rapt and erect and rubbing my cock (unconsciously), tentacles climbed thighs and rubbed ass cracks. The victims did not flee, but pushed their butts back and wiggled to invite obscene penetration. If they wanted to get fucked by monster feelers, they could not be more obvious.
The tentacle invasion began immediately. The first alien to be penetrated by one of the fiery salamander's long tentacles shrieked. I could not determine whether the shriek was one of despair or joy. Nonetheless, the tentacle drove into his ass, penetrating him deep, and thrusting hard and fast. Invasion after invasion followed, each hominid asshole a sacrifice to the unholy lusts of this evil monster. A sick depravity swept over me. I felt like I was one of those being penetrated. What's worse, I wanted the penetration. I wanted this eternal night, this perpetual darkness, this demon of fire, this elemental of profanity to enter into my ass, to take me, to fuck me, to make me its own. I wanted the damnation. I wanted the unholy seed ejaculated into my ass. I wanted for my asshole to be dilated, abused, cheapened, and seeded by this shadow out of mind.
I looked around wildly. My cock was so hard that I thought I could shoot my cum right onto this fetid ground. However, I was not alone. Every member of my party felt the arousal from the hideous forces below us. Every one of us was erect, even our preacher who tried so desperately to conceal his erection, and failed so miserably. I realized that I was jacking off in front of the entire crew, but I could not stop. I flogged my cock hard, wringing my dickhead. Tremors of orgasm shot through me as I watched the hellish butt fuck orgy below and tried to ignore the daisy chain just behind. Oh, if one of those big aliens would stuff his froggy skinned cock into my ass. Oh, to take his god-awful spunk. Rapturous tremors seized me. I was coming. I fell into the mindless orgasm, rising to my knees and flinging my cum over the edge of the precipice so that it fell upon the men dancing below. I came. I came, and so did all of my companions; my professor, the British researcher, the American explorer, and the young reverend. Every human male was masturbating uncontrollably and ejaculating over the edge.
Drained, gasping, wet, dicks glistening with spittle and cum, we sprawled in a heap. Our alien guides finished their convivial butt fuck and clustered around us. In my disordered state, I smiled shyly at Yogash. The alien responded by lifting me to my feet and imprisoning my arms behind me. The others followed suit.
"Buggered," Wilkes-Johnson yelped.
"Fucking hell, these bastards were never our guides," Sam Ford exclaimed. "All the time they were our captors. We were too stupid to realize it."
"May God preserve us," Peter Reed prayed.
So the truth was out at last. We were the prisoners of these depraved beings.
Looking back, we should have known. Launched by the Arkham Space Program, we five had slingshot Jupiter, picked up unthinkable speed, and shot toward a trans-Plutonian orbit. The black hole seemed to come out of nowhere. "There's a massive gravity fluctuation," Mr. Wilkes-Johnson, our astrogator, had howled. "Evasive maneuvers."
Despite Sam Ford's piloting skill, the black hole's gravitational pull caught us. Had we not glanced off the edge of some dark matter, the black hole would have crushed us along with the rest of the stuff it was pulling in. However, our impact with the dark matter sent us reeling directly into the opening wormhole. As we fell into the anomaly, the universe twisted inside out. The rapid deceleration knocked us out of our senses. When we returned to consciousness, our spaceship was spiraling into the atmosphere of a hot and fetid world.
The seven aliens gathered around our wrecked craft. To our shock, they understood our language and made their own names clear. These seven-foot high, frog-fleshed creatures were named Nug, Yog, Shub, Shaurash, Yogash, K'baa, and Ghoth.
Eyeing our alien hosts with British disdain, Mr. Wilkes-Johnson carefully enunciated, "Say, we're in a predicament."
"We're screwed with our pants on," Sam Ford clarified.
"We appear to be both lost and wrecked," Dr. Blair Bevington said, giving voice to the obvious.
I said nothing at all, but the young Reverend Peter Reed inquired whether they had "found the Lord." I realized that he was looking for some confirmation regarding the universality of his religion, but his word choice was poor.
The aliens were mystified until Peter Reed managed to clarify his wording by invoking several names for God. Comprehension dawning, the aliens became more animated and urged us to accompany them. We filled our packs and set off along the hot and fetid path. Peter Reed broke off some of the foliage and examined it. "It's rather mushy and fragile."
"Yucky," Wilkes-Johnson said. Curious, he reached out to feel the of a ghastly bark gigantic tree trunk. His arm went clear through the trunk. Wilkes-Johnson's gasped and pulled his arm back. Tiny spores of an obscene crimson hue adhered to his skin. He tried to brush them off, but they clung to his hand and clothing. He ended up wasting some of our precious drinking water in order to clean the mess from his skin.
We walked all that day in the sweltering heat, and when the horrible darkness fell, we slept as close as we could considering our cooking skin. By evening of the second day, we all had flu-like symptoms but the disease passed by morning.
"It's the air," Dr. Bevington said. "Who knows what we're taking in with every breath.
"Our lungs are going slumming," Wilkes-Johnson quipped.
"Lungs, shit," Sam Ford griped. "It's gone all the way through our systems." He quickly pulled down his shorts and squatted beside the path--just in time. By the end of the third day, we were all crapping like maniacs.
On the fourth day, we reached a disgusting pond. The natives drank deeply and encouraged us to do the same. They kept telling us that we would feel much better if we drank the native water, but none of us wanted to experiment. The water smelled like something that should have been buried last week. Sometime during that day, we became aware of the drumming. None of us could say when we first noticed it. We agreed that we had been hearing the drums for some time, perhaps even since we first emerged from our crashed craft, but we could not be certain. By the time we heard it, we knew that there was no turning back for us, if that had ever been an option. We had to go on to the source.
After we witnessed the fire dance (and acted as we did), our native guides shut us up in a small hut formed out of hard stone. The temperature inside was very hot, and the natives had taken away our last containers of water and food.
Of course, they thoughtfully supplied us with plenty of the native beverage, the same horrible water we had encountered in the pond.
"Wouldn't you know it," Wilkes-Johnson said, punching the stone walls and bloodying his knuckles. "The only substance on this bloody buggering world that's solid, and those blighters lock us up in it." His voice came as a croak from his parched throat.
I felt like I could stand it no longer. I dipped some of the native water and placed it in my mouth. My dry tissues screamed out as the water hydrated them. The entire mouthful vanished without my swallowing. I tried a bit more, letting it trickle down the back of my throat. The others watched me with horrified fascination.
"It's not all that bad," I said. I waited a minute before I drank some more. The horrible odor seemed to have gone away--or--horrible thought--my body had become acclimated to the native water so I could no longer perceive its loathsomeness.
"I fear you have drunk evil into your soul, Harp," Peter Reed said. His voice echoed his concern. Sam Ford emitted a snort of disgust and sampled some of the water. In the end, everyone drank, even the preacher. So if I had polluted my soul, so had he. The thought made me laugh out loud.
Dr. Bevington gave me a bemused look. "What was that evil laugh, Harp?"
"Oh, just something I thought of. It's nothing."
"You sounded positively demonic," Peter Reed said.
Throwing all caution out the window (if we had had a window), I picked up one of the native fruits from the clay bowl. The fruit was malformed, gnarly, and purplish flecked with whitish spots. I popped it into my mouth and chewed. At first it tasted like something the cat dragged in, but after I swallowed a bit the flavor grew on me.
"How can you chew that beastly thing?" Wilkes-Johnson demanded.
"Do you feel okay, Harp?" Dr. Bevington asked.
Peter Reed shuddered and turned his back. For the first time, I thought about what an attractive rump the preacher had. His buttocks swelled nicely, and the cleft between looked deliciously tight. I slipped behind him and rubbed my cock against his crack. My cock hardened immediately.
"What are you DOING?" Peter Reed shrieked. "My God!"
"Harp," Dr. Bevington yelped.
"Get hold of yourself, man," Wilkes-Johnson exclaimed.
Instead of getting hold of myself, I got hold of Peter Reed. I gripped his hips with both hands and pushed my cock into his crack. "Help me," the young reverend screamed. "Oh, help me."
Strong hands gripped me. Sam Ford and Dr. Bevington were both trying to pull me off of him. I held onto Peter Reed and humped his butt crack with my hard-on. He was shrieking and the others swearing.
"Harp! Harp!" Dr. Bevington kept shouting, trying to break through my insane mania.
"He's like a goddamn dog humping your leg," Sam Ford swore. "You either gotta shoot the bastard or wait 'till he squirts."
"Oh, Jesus, don't let him squirt," Peter Reed cried.
Wilkes-Johnson joined the contest then, and the three men together succeeded in pulling me away from the reverend. Peter Reed pressed his naked body against the hot stone of the farthest wall while the others held me.
"I'm thirsty," I said.
"Could it be in the blasted water?" Wilkes-Johnson asked.
"We all drank some," Sam said. "The rest of us didn't turn into gripping cornholers."
"I'm thirsty," I shouted.
"Let him drink," Dr. Bevington suggested. "Maybe that will calm him down."
I must have downed half a gallon of that interesting water. It tasted good. The necrophagous flavor tantalized my taste buds. As the water flowed through my body, I felt better than I had felt since we arrived on this strange world.
"What happened to you, Harp?" Dr. Bevington asked.
"I don't know."
"Do you remember what you did? The way you attacked poor Reed there?"
"Tried to bugger him good," Wilkes-Johnson contributed.
"I remember. I can only describe what I was feeling. There was no conscious decision. I saw the way his ass curves. He has curvy buttocks and the cleft looks inviting. I couldn't help myself."
"Well, try calling a bit of Christian restraint next time," Peter Reed suggested moving away from the wall. He turned to Wilkes-Johnson to ask something, which presented me with a half-view of his ass. I went for him immediately, but Sam stuck out his foot and tripped me. I sprawled on my face.
"Better not let him see your bare ass," Sam Ford suggested.
"How in the name of all that is holy am I supposed to cover myself?" Peter Reed protested. "None of us has a stitch."
I climbed to my feet as though nothing had happened, drank some more water, and ate three more pieces of the strange fruit. The others viewed me with alarm.
"Now he'll really go off his chump," Wilkes-Johnson muttered darkly.
"Now where'd this book come from?" Sam Ford said, picking up an ancient tome of lost knowledge. "Livre d'Eibon. What the fuck?"
"That book is in the college library," I piped up. "Some guy named Eibon writes about his trip to the planet Shaggai and the weird rituals of the deity Zhothaqquah's worshippers."
"Like that horror show we witnessed last night?" Peter Reed said, viewing the antiquarian volume with disgust.
"Eibon is a wizard who slays otherworldly monsters," I concluded.
Sam Ford and Wilkes-Johnson appeared to be impressed by my erudition, while my professor beamed at me with pride. Peter Reed's voiced only one comment: "Make him stay over there."
What had I said about Peter Reed not being a fraidy-cat? I found something that scared him weak kneed--my hard dick.
K'baa and Ghoth arrived then, bringing more water and our evening meal. Wilkes-Johnson gasped when he spied our food, and Peter Reed gagged. For some reason, I could not take my eyes from the platter. We had been served something that looked like thick worms.
"Eat," K'baa ordered. "Everybody eat."
"Have a heart," Wilkes-Johnson groaned. "We can't eat worms. The water is bad enough, and those bloody plum things turned Ahern here into a psychotic bugger-butt."
"Eat," Ghoth said. To demonstrate that they weren't poisoning us, the alien picked out a delectable worm, popped it into his mouth, and licked his chops. "Good."
"What the hell, in for a penny--" I quipped reaching for the platter. Sam Ford slapped my hand away.
"I'll try one first, Harp," said he. "No matter what's in it, nothing is going to make me try to cornhole the preacher."
Sam popped a worm thing into his mouth. He resisted chewing for a few seconds, but his eyes glinted with pleasure and he finally chewed and swallowed. "Damned tasty," he pronounced. "Kinda taste like truffles."
I ate one then. At first, the aroma of cooked mushrooms filled my nostrils; then a more intense taste pleasured my mouth and nose. The worm was just chewy enough to be pleasant. I reached for a second one."
"As Harp was about to say, `In for a penny, in for a pound,'" Wilkes-Johnson echoed, taking one of the strange delicacies.
"Any port in the storm," added the professor, only slightly mocking Wilkes-Johnson. The British researcher did not take offense; instead, he took a second helping from the platter.
"Oh, Hell and Damnation," Peter Reed said, seeing that we had all eaten of the foreign food. "Christ, forgive me, but I'm famished." He too ate a worm and went back for seconds.
By the time our seven former guides came to escort us to the fire dance, we were well prepared. We had eaten the entire platter of worms, and everyone had consumed those terrible fruits. We washed those odd foods down with the hellish water. All the evil influences of the planet were coursing through our bodies. Naked, sweating but undismayed, we followed the tall creatures to the circle of dancers. Our heartbeats had long since attuned to the rhythm of the drums; indeed the beat had become so much a part of us that we hardly heard it.
As our guides merged us into the circle of dancers, I felt waves of euphoria rushing over me. Coursing through me came a rapture of sensation. The dancers began chanting again, and although I could not understand the words, they tingled in my cells. The alien ahead of me was naked and erect, even though he was barely four feet high and matted with a pink outer netting of skin. I should have found him hideous, but the way he wiggled his ass awoke the same mad lust in me that ended in my trying to mount Peter Reed.
The thought held me back for a moment, and I wanted to see how the preacher was reacting. I was stunned to see Peter Reed wiggling his own ass as though he hoped one of these alien monsters would fill it. His erect cock was leaking a thin stream of some substance that was not quite cum. Placing my hand on my dick, I found that I was dribbling the same substance out of my rocky erection. I took a quick taste. The fluid had more of the flavor of the weird worms we had eaten, mingled with the intense tastes of the water and the fruit, than it shared with the natural flavor of my semen.
We had been dancing obscenely around the fire pit for some time when the heat grew more intense. Lusts such as I had never imagined swelled up inside of me. I wanted to do things that might have horrified me at home. What would it be like to lick the asshole of that little alien swinging his butt so promiscuously in front of me? Would I suck Sam Ford's cock? The explorer swung an impressive club, and I could imagine fucking it with my throat.
The "thing cannot be described" was rising up from the fire pit. "Cthulhu fhtagn!" The words flew unbidden from my mouth.
Men formed an inner ring around the fire pit, we five among them. I fell to my knees, placed my elbows on the hot, fetid ground, and presented my naked ass to the flames. "Cthulhu fhtagn. Ph'nglui mglw'nafh Cthulhu R'lyeh wgah'nagl fhtagn. Cthulhu fhtagn. Ph'nglui mglw'nafh Cthulhu R'lyeh wgah'nagl fhtagn. Cthulhu fhtagn."
Dr. Bevington was beside me, wiggling his ass with hideous invitation, and joining his voice in homage to the "the green, sticky spawn of the stars." I turned my head and saw Peter Reed, his ass waggling and his mouth chanting the damnable invocation. The other individuals of our group were scattered around the circle, each offering his rectum in sacrifice to the unholy being. The heat on my buttocks grew in intensity as a lurid glow rose up over me, over all of us.
I was gripped with a sexual frenzy. I wanted those monstrous tentacles to penetrate me; yet, my carnality sickened me. I was terrified and hopeful, feeling deep down that this moment was the last time I would know myself. I was about to surrender my individuality to some dreadful group immorality.
I felt the closeness of the thing coming out of the fire. I saw flabby claws grip Dr. Bevington's thighs, while writhing feelers wrapped him. For him then, there was no escape. He was going to be penetrated. He was going to be filled with the alien tentacles, those evil tentacles, and they would shoot their foul fluids into him.
Could I have leaped up and run then? Perhaps. But run to where? Even as I feverishly tried to plan an escape, I knew I had waited too long. I felt the flabby claws gripping my thighs, a grip greatly to be desired. The feelers wrapped my arms and my torso. They imprisoned my legs and held me in the position that the atrocious salamander of sin desired.
"Yog-Sothoth! Yog-Sothoth! Yog-Sothoth!" The chant we had mouthed had spoken of the dream of Cthulhu, but it was not that sleeping evil that was taking us. Vapors of the terrible truth were filtering into my brain, altering my brain cells to the shape of my sacrifice. I had come to the gate, and the key to the gate would fully come into me, and my essence would be reanimated.
"Y'ai'ng'ngah Yog-Sothoth h'ee-l'geb f'ai trhodog uaaah." The gate of the great abyss opened. I fell, I fall, I am falling, I continue to fall. In the vaporous raptures of pleasure, time and space lose all meaning. The flabby claws grip me and feelers encircle me. I am held tight in the position of reception. "The favor of the God requires eternal servitude," echoes repeatedly through my brain. My asshole is opening. Something tremendous pressures my anal sphincter.
"I am your devoted slave," I whisper.
"Forever? My slave--infinite and eternal?" queries the Beyond-One.
"Forever," I promise. "Your slave--infinite and eternal. Your will is my own."
"Embrace the infinite night, slave. Eternal Darkness flows into you."
My asshole is completely open to Him. He presses his tentacle in, in, in. He opens me wider than I can possibly go, but I feel no pain. Raptures course through me. I know that He is going in deep and feel only joy. Pleasure me. Pleasure my ass.
My cock is erupting constantly. I approach orgasm. I am in orgasm. The orgasm deepens into eternity. My cock is coming; my dick head is tingling, my balls are clenching; my asshole is dilated around the Monster filling me.
"As you please Me, you gain My knowledge. You shall know the Eternal Depths. That which is forbidden for mortals to know--you shall know." The feelers caress my face as the thick tentacle fucks my ass. A hot pinkish tentacle formed like a thick circumcised cock touches my lips. I open my mouth to receive it. Fuck my mouth as You will. I shall please You.
The dick shaped tentacle passes between my lips. It slides along my tongue. Already it is leaking its hellish cum. My lips and tongue are in orgasm from the explosive taste. The cum is hot. It is thick. I let it roll down my throat. I let it fill me.
Forbidden knowledge pours into me. My body is in orgasm. Waves of pleasure crash upon the beaches of my cells. Yet with the pleasure comes the wet knowledge. I see the vaporous existence of things beyond imagining; I feel the beingness of energy and matter; I am at one with infinite time and infinite space. The fluids pour into me. My bowels are filled with the wet spunk of eternal decay, and I drink the moldering putrefaction down as the cock tentacle fucks my throat. I look into nothingness, and hear the stark emptiness.
I taste cold and smell heat, as my cock bucks out a strange cum. The more cum I take into my body, the more I have to expel. And as long as I have semen to shoot, I remain in orgasm. The lightning in my brain rips my mental cells. I am lost--lost to everything, and lost to myself.
Now I am hot, so hot that I burn. My brain is nothing but fumes, but my body still thrills to the tentacles pleasuring me. I concentrate on giving pleasure to Him. To please Him is my highest duty, my greatest goal, my submissive will. The pleasure becomes so intense that I must die.
I came slowly back to myself--and not myself. The being who had been Sam Ford cuddled against me. The thing formerly known as Peter Reed pressed its slick cock against my ass. My vision was blurred, and when I wiped my eyes, I discovered that my face was frosted with alien cum. My companions and I climbed shakily to our feet. The fire had burned low, and the alien dawn was fast approaching.
As we stood trembling after sampling the fruit of the tree of knowledge of good and evil, K'baa, Shaurash, and Yogash helped us join a group of new initiates, others from unknown worlds who had participated in the ritual with us five earthlings.
"You have promised eternal servitude," Shaurash said. "Now you await the ultimate blasphemy. You shall be carried into the Nightmare and to the Thing whose Name no lips dare utter. The drums assist Him in His dread slumber. He grinds His terrible teeth in inconceivable darkness, and His servants obey in sexual supplication as they flop mindlessly in His eternal perverted dance."
"Something is coming," gasped the thing that had been Mr. Wilkes-Johnson. "More than one. Many of the buggers."
"Yaj?'u ash-shudhdh?dh," Nug announced, arriving late with Yog and Ghoth at his heels.
Despite my new knowledge, I could not translate the words quickly. Dr. Bevington assisted me.
"The Abnormal Ones. They come now," he said in a hushed voice. His eyes were veiled with anticipation.
"Yes, here are your mounts. They will convey you to your destination--to the One who owns you."
The flames had fallen so low that I could not clearly make out the assembled creatures. One by one, the aliens who had been inducted along with us seated themselves and were conveyed toward the falling green fog.
Of our group, Peter Reed was first to take a seat. He straddled the creature, lifted himself as though assuming a position, and lowered his ass upon the beast. I was close enough to see the feral expression plaster his lips and the degenerate light illuminate his eyes. Mounted on the Abnormal One, Peter Reed no longer looked like anything human. He was the picture of depravity as he departed from our midst.
Dr. Blair Bevington was next. He rose up onto the creature and hunched down with a grunt. Sheer wantonness suffused his features, and his creature carried him into the fog.
Evil cum dripping from my ass, I felt impelled toward the creature that was almost nuzzling my bare leg. However, I pulled back and let the explorer Sam Ford go next. Sam mounted his mount, and finding the mounting satisfying, Sam let his mouth lapse into an evil leer and his eyes glow with deviant light.
The depravity that painted Mr. Wilkes-Johnson's countenance outshone the hideous transformations of the rest. His beast carried him away as Wilkes-Johnson howled "Bugger, bugger, bugger," and bounced upon the back of his mount.
Then I was left, last, alone so to speak, hovering upon the brink of the ultimate wickedness. For the first time, I had a clear view of my intended mount. The creature had four elephantine feet and legs, a leather skin, and neither head nor tail. Its only appendage was the thick leathery cock protruding straight up from the middle of its back. The cock's gray leathery skin was slick with ejaculated spunk, and its hole was pouring out a steady stream. I could smell the eternal corruption pumping out of that terrible dick.
Horrified by my own actions, I threw my right leg over my mount. I lowered my ass onto its horrible erection until I felt the slippery head touch my asshole. I let the gravity of this vile planet do the rest. I rode downward, and as I did, a terrible beauty, sinister, atrocious, submissive, and corrupt, entered into me. Rising again on the cock, I dropped my ass and impaled my rectum all the way. Trotting so that I bounced deliciously, the creature carried me toward the green fog swirling at the edge of that pit where we danced the Fire Dance of Yog-Sothoth.
The End
About the Author
David Holly lives, moves, and has his being in Portland, Oregon and environs. He is fascinated by the human penchant for odd mythologies, bizarre rituals, diverse religions, forlorn hopes, and broken dreams. He lives in a garish apartment with multihued walls hung with Haitian paintings and shelved with two thousand books. Sharing the apartment are sundry fur-bearing fellow mortals. He is exceptionally fond of strong coffee, red wine, English bitters, rich stout, inverted roller coasters, nude beaches, and hot-looking guys. He wears bright colors, tight slacks, exotic underwear, and slinky swim briefs. He is joyously pagan and loves making merry in heathen celebrations, marching in pride parades, and frolicking naked on Sauvie Island's Collins Beach. Find out more about David Holly and his numerous publications at facebook.com/david.holly2 and http://gaywriter.org.