“Fuck!” Snake doubles up in pain, almost broken by the power of entry.
The Leather Messiah emits tongues from his shapeshifting flesh, eagerly drinking the tears leaking from Snake’s eyes.
Poor boy. You taste like wine.
Another thrust. Another foot of phallus. It flexes inside him, turning and twisting with Snake’s intestines, penetrating him further than any mortal cock could. It bucks and leaps, strains against the confining colon. And penetrates. And thrusts. And probes. And slithers deeper, deeper, ever deeper into that succulent tightness you can only find in a man’s hot butt.
Doomed to live in a place where fucking is a matter of economics.
“Fuck me,” Snake grunts. He reaches up, embraces the Messiah. His fingertips plunge into the demon’s flesh.
Do you love me?
The demon’s phallus ripples inside of him. Withdraws until Snake’s anus bulges. Sinks inside. Snake’s toes curl.
Let me tell you about love.
The hard, urgent thrusting begins. The ejaculators lengthen into finger-like appendages, stroking Snake’s tender innards.
It’s not about money.
The Messiah churns faster in Snake’s guts.
If love is for money, then it’s not love–it’s parasitism. That’s your empire’s curse, you see. It was birthed in plunder, and it never escaped its birth.
“Fuck me!” Snake reaches up and embraces the deliquescent flesh. A surge of electricity explodes through him, and he writhes and twists and bucks on the rutting phallus. He feels as if he’s drowning in erotic ooze.
You’re a pleasing boy, and your body burns with the need for rut, and that is why I chose you to be one of my Disciples. But you don’t know what love is.
“I got … three feet … of love … inside me!” Snake’s head whips from side to side, spittle flying.
Dim pot-addled boy.
The Messiah’s eyes turn fiery.
Love is a kinship. The willingness to do anything so that someone else … something else … may live. Your universe was born in the death spasms of a previous universe … and if you wish to escape the legacy of its birth, you must strive for life.
“… cumming … ” Snake murmurs, and slathers his chest with ropes of jism.
Ah, you feel good, boy. You please me. You give in to lust, the fire of life. I burn to cum to. I am the Leather Messiah. I am here to liberate your people.
The demon’s thrusts become more frantic.
!!!ORGASM!!!
The demon’s phallus erupts. Scalding fluid rushes into the blond biker, and Snake bucks, arcing his back against the iron embrace of the Leather Messiah’s tendrils, helplessly cumming again, fountaining life in the demon’s slimy embrace.
Long moments pass, human and demon united in the sluggish retreat from Elysium.
The phallus shivers, softens, slurps from Snake’s hole. Greenish ichor pours out. Gently the demon lowers Snake’s body to the floor.
Snake lays, panting, smearing the jism on his chest. Demon seed burbles from his butthole.
The Leather Messiah’s form melts until He is a giant amoeba pulsing on the floor.
That boy. Sanchez. I want him dead.
“I’ve never killed anyone,” Snake gasps. He stuffs two fingers up his butt, scoops out spoonfuls of the Leather Messiah’s seed, devours it. His eyes roll up. Marijuana’s high is dilute compared to the ecstasy blazing through him.
There’s a first time for everything.
“Why?”
He is my enemy. He worships powers who oppose my designs here. He wants to kill us. Destroy everything I stand for. Wipe out my Disciples.
“I didn’t think you could be killed.” Snake wants to doze. Fuck thisLord of the Ringscrap. No quests. Just weed, and sex, and–
There’s peril for the disobedient.
The sharp edge in His voice quells the urge to sleep. “All right. All right! Sorry. Forgive me. I’m human.”
I love you because you’re human. Get dressed.
“Why?”
He’s coming.
“But why do I need to get dressed?”
Because he’s got the sword and he might cut your cock off.
So it’s over. This special moment with his god. It feels like the end of summer, when winter’s cold claws begin to tear the leaves from the living forest.
Snake slips back into his shorts. But he leaves his semen there on his chest, glistening, oblong medals celebrating primal lust, drying to curly flakes. The smell is pungent.
The Messiah flows toward the grate and retreats to the plane of his existence.
The throaty roar of a Dodge Viper with tailpipe modifications stops in the driveway.
Kill.The stark word burns in Snake’s mind. Oh yes, he’s thought of it. The Disciples live a dangerous life, but they’re for anarchy and freedom, not death. Yet they’re not untainted with that crime. Until the Leather Messiah triumphs their world is war. Snake’s not killed. Thought of it, yes. Yearned to do it, like when some cop grills him. But he’s still cherry. White. Chaste.
Kill!
Can he do it? Can he kill someone with coral pink lips and an eminently fuckable butt?
Sanchez knock is loud and firm.
Snake seeks a moment to collect himself. “What do I do?”
Answer the door, nitwit.
Sanchez shifts uneasily as the door opens. He holds the sword. It’s sheathed. His Honda idles in the driveway, the door open. Behind him the sky is gunmetal gray, rapidly darkening. Tall pillars of cloud boil. Lightning dances like titanic fireflies.
“Seppuku?” grins Snake, shoving his hand into his pocket and cupping his palm around the grip of his .45.Do it now, master?
You’re an idiot, beloved. Don’t do it now.
Puzzled, Sanchez asks, “What?”
“What do you want, fucker?”
“Uhhh … anyone home?” Sanchez shoots a glance past Snake.
“Yeah,” says Snake slowly, groping for a thought, a plan. “Down in the basement. One of my buddies in brewing something up.” Not true, but Sanchez won’t learn the facts.
“What … kind of stuff?”
“We’ve been here before, ain’t we? You a narc?” Snake’s eyes glitter.
“No! Hell no!”
“I’ll ask you once more. What. Do. You. Want?”Can you give me a clue, master?
The Leather Messiah is silent.
“Listen. Let me come in–”
Let him.
Snake backs away from the door, keeping his eyes on Sanchez’s twitching fingers. “Suit yourself, motherfucker.”
Thunder booms. Window panes rattle.
Sanchez’ eyes take in the room. The blunt in the ashtray. The twittering television. The puddles of fluid–demon jism–on the floor, smelling like a locker room blended with marijuana. The open box sitting on a side table with a treasure trove of .45 cartridges. The bookcase sagging under the weight of blasphemous tomes.
If Sanchez were sensitive he’d feel the otherwordliness leaking like a heavy gas from those volumes. But he isn’t. Or perhaps the fumes of demon jism addle his brain.
There’s not really any cover in the room, so Snake leans against the jamb of the doorway leading to his bedroom. He can retreat. If necessary flinging himself through the window. He fakes casualness but his eyes never stray far from the sword in Sanchez’s hands.
“I heard–listen–a buddy of mine said you guys got some stuff.” Sanchez has one hand on the sword hilt, the other on the scabbard, as if he’s ready to draw and begin swinging.
“The Disciple’s got lots of stuff, kid.” Snake eases the safety off the pistol.
Lightning cracks. The lights flicker. A sound echoes up out of the furnace grate.