DISCLAIMER: The following is fiction. The content of the story is not representative of the writer’s beliefs, opinions, or attitudes. This story is intended for adult entertainment only. The characters and events depicted in this work are fictional. The author does not condone or promote any unlawful activity such as is depicted in the story. By continuing to read this work you acknowledge that you are an adult who wishes to read works of fantasy and fiction for the purpose only of fantasy. All the characters in this story are adults. They may play different ages for the fictional character that they are depicting but they remain at all times adults. All Rights Reserved © 2023 LITTLESALLY666.

STORY CODES: Supernatural, Religious themes, Transgender, Age-Play/Young, Piss, Demonic/Satanic, Abuse, Corruption, Evil, Devil Worship, Black Mass, NC, Sex Demons, Transformation.

CREATED: 28.08. 2022 (V22) / REVISITED: 20.07.2023



Partly written in the second person (as a narrative); and wholly inspired by the TryaRich, a ladyboy from the Philippines who loves to drink her own piss straight from her hard shecock. How I love sissies that like to play with their piss. Check this out!


  • My imaginary friend — that would be YOU, the reader
  • Alekander Duin (Alek) — protagonist, male, geek, wiry and short (158 cm), 30ish
  • TyraRich (Tyra) — transgender, small (150 cm), fake blonde hair, pretty and petite, flat-chested, Filipino, 20
  • Rachel Declure— Alek’s Christian ex-girlfriend, generally vanilla and boring in bed, 28
  • Divine — Black Mambo Vodou Goddess, shemale, 170 cm tall with 9” cock, 32


“The darkness declares the glory of light — ” TS Eliot “It’s where my demons hide.” ― Imagine Dragons

My name is Alekander Duin — but you can call me Alek.

I am a thirty-something and a self-confessed geek. Not married, or engaged. Actually between relationships right now; as I have just been dumped by my vanilla girlfriend, Rachel Declure (but you can call her bitch). No big deal. I was about to dump her — she just beat me to it.

Maybe part of the reason was because, lately, I really prefer edging to actual fucking. And I found it progressively more difficult to get an erection whilst with her. Maybe too much church and all that crap? You know … cannot do oral … cannot do anal … cannot do fetish, etc. That sounds bad, right? Whom the fuck knows or cares. Maybe, I just watch far too much extreme porn to get off on shagging a boring cunt.

Sometimes I get lost in it all … lost in the taboo lust, lost in edging to perverted filth, lost in the darkness.

But I talk too much. And before we go any further … let me say that even though we don’t know each other very well … I feel you are someone I can talk to … someone I can relate to…

Can you be my imaginary friend?

You know, be my confidant. The friend that would understand me … not judgmental, no negative shit … never tell me (the truth) … that I suck … maybe even empathize with my situations … even though it may, at first glance, seem a little fucked up and crazy.

Can you do that?

Good. Thanks.

So where to start?

The first part of my story is about the darkness … Now, for the record, darkness is not just the absence of light. The darkness has a definite sensation, a feeling with an allure all of its own. Like a world within a world, maybe? Just think about it for a moment, no matter how fast light travels, it finds the darkness has always got there first … it’s waiting for it, right?

Fuck, that’s deep.

This then brings me to the second part of my story; darkness brings debauchery. It’s like the darkness awaits me — it corrupts me — just as day is turned into night. I wonder what debauchery awaits in the eternal darkness? Like traveling to the dark side of the moon? They say that knowing your own darkness is the best method for dealing with the darkness of other people.

I don’t know if that’s true.

Let me say, that as a kid, I was always terrified of the darkness. The darkness, back then, meant I was fair game for the debauchery of monsters, demons, and all creatures of the night. One too many “B” grade horror movies, maybe? I was really deeply afraid. Like really serious. I even slept with the light on or with my bedroom door wide open (so that the hallway light would spill into my little bedroom).

So as a ten-year-old, my fear of the dark ended abruptly. I began to embrace “the darkness” with the discovery of masturbation. I guess that’s no big secret. Not really. They say ninety percent of people do it. Masturbate, that is. It was the age of self-discovery and exploration. One minute I was terrified of the night demons … next … I want to be fucked by them.

Odd, right?

As a young child, even back then, I think my mind was already pretty fucked up. Not that I was abused or anything. No, I had loving, caring parents. A church upbringing. A healthy family environment. Never had to want for anything.

So what went wrong?

I just had all these strange sexual thoughts as I played with myself … sometimes about my young friends, and all the weird sex things, I’d like to do with them (not all of them consensual either). And then there were all the abnormal games I secretly played on my own. Like playing with my poop or drinking my own piss. Or sticking the hairbrush handle up your ass. Or imagining women having sex with animals, especially horses. While other boys got off on the lingerie section of Women’s Day magazine — I wanted to see rape, castration, abortion, devil worship, ritual murder, and cannibalism.

Then I discovered sacred androgyny.

Finding that there was such a thing as transgender and hermaphroditic demons that offered the delights of both cocks and cunts — all so feminine, yet, so fucking phallic. I saw the devil — not as a man — but as a woman with a rock-hard cock rising up between her goat-like thighs.

I”m sure you’ve had similar thoughts, right?

You can tell me.

One pervert to another.


So here I am. The hood over my head shrouded me in decadent darkness.

The thick cable tie held my wrists firmly together behind my back. The tightness of their grip was uncomfortable, to say the least. My abductors, what little I had seen of them, had worn masks — like pantomime-type masks, something like demons — so I never actually saw their faces. They throw me in the back of their van.

As the van moved, I swayed with each turn. I started to try and count them but gave up as I felt sick. The floor of the rear of the van was hard, cold, and gritty. I wasn’t sure how far we’d traveled, but it wasn’t close by. My mind reeled with the unfortunate possibilities — unfortunate for me! My mouth tasted of iron; or was it that I had bitten my own lip, and what I could taste was my blood?

Eventually, I felt the van come to a stop. I heard the distinctive sound of a motorized roller shutter open. The van moved forward slowly and then again I heard the roller shutter close. My abductors said nothing.

The thing was, I didn’t know why (though I had some bizarre theories) or where we were actually going.

Only the fear of the unknown gripped me tightly. The sliding door of the van opened and several hands pulled me forward and out of the van. They still said nothing. Still blindfolded, I was dragged between my captors.

Click … Click … Click … Click … The brush of steel against my skin as they cut my clothes from my body. The soft pain as the blades cut into my wrists to free my hands from the hard plastic. Light blinded me as the hood was ripped from my head. By the time I could see again, I was left alone and the demon-faced abductors were nowhere in sight.

Though I was naked, the room wasn’t too cold. In fact, it felt maybe a little too warm. I could even smell my own salty sweat.

There was a single light source hanging in the middle of the room. It was covered with a spinning or turning light shade with, what I thought were Halloween-like images that were projected onto the dark walls inside the windowless room. At first, I thought the turning images to be rather juvenile — witches on broomsticks, skeletons, ghosts, horned demons, pumpkins — but as I looked closer, they seemed to be rather pornographic … even the witches seemed to be depicted as androgynous with large erect penises. They struck me as kind of strange and maybe obscene.

In the low light, I could make out the shape of a metal-framed single bed with a bare mattress. It was the only piece of furniture, besides an old television (the cathode-ray type with a wooden box around it) and an old-style analog VCR player beneath it.

There was nothing else to see or do, so bored, I sat down on the bed and just waited. The mattress felt clammy and damp … and smelt unclean. I just sat there. Time seemed to move slowly. It felt like ages — minutes or hours — time seemed to stand very still. I was just lost again in the darkness.


Now, I know we don’t really know each other that well … and I hope you won’t be too judgmental … but what I haven’t told you so far is that I have been rather bad lately. I have. I know I shouldn’t but I had been searching the dark web for perverted sexual thrills. Playing with fire? I used a VPN in conjunction with some tools that I know. Usually used for surveillance or testing, they gave me access to some dark and taboo stuff.

No longer satisfied with the usual porn one finds online, I had been searching for more extreme things … illegal things … I corresponded with a few anonymous people … we talked and shared fantasies … I even got off on it … but that alone wouldn’t constitute a reason for anyone to detain me? Law enforcement wouldn’t strip me naked and leave me in such a weird place? Maybe it was some kind of vigilante or maybe blackmail? They do warn you about extortion.

Who the fuck knows?


The door reopened and a feminine figure entered. Embarrassed, I get up off the bed and tried my best to cover my nudity — well, just my insignificant cock.

“You must be wondering where you are. … Why are you here? … Who am I, right?”

I didn’t say anything.

In the dull light, my abductor looked pretty androgynous. She had a raw Asian raunchiness (only just five feet tall without shoes, I guessed) and slightly Goth-like make-up. Her teeth were white and her lips were fat and protruding. The perfect cock sucking lips. She had a “fuck me” slutty look about her. Wearing a sleeveless black dress, her body appeared stringy to the point of being almost anorexic and completely flat-chested. Her hair was long and peroxide blond with dark roots. It fell untidily around her yellowish shoulders. Her fingernails were painted with black nail polish but trimmed very short.

Yes, before you ask … I thought she was very sexy.

My abductor undressed in front of me, leaving only her open-toed high heels on. There was something about her high-heels that tipped her hips and made her fully erect cock stand outwards from her groin. Her cock looked dark-skinned. Not circumcised, but the foreskin was fully rolled back down the shaft as it curved upwards above her dark-skinned testicles. Her cock was about four or five inches long. It looked all wet with precum and sweat. I wanted it in my mouth.

I say, “her” because I felt it was probably the right gender pronoun … well, in my fucked-up mind. I know some prefer “they” … and though parts of her body were definitely male, everything else said female. She moved with a female whorish swagger, more like an erotic dancer or stripper … but with something of a feline predator about her … I was the prey.

Looking at her fat dark nipples and hustler nakedness, I became instantly aroused.

She picked up a clipboard and a pen.

“Like what you see? My body? My little burat … little cock?” she stared at me with a look of impatience, “Yes? No? We haven’t got all night …”

She spoke her broken English with a strong Pinoy accent.


”Good,” she said, ticking a box as if it were some kind of customer satisfaction survey.

”What is this all about?” I ventured.

”Look, Alek,” she knew my name, “I ask questions … Tsupa … Cock sucking? … You do cock sucking? … Sixty-nine?”

”Ah … Yes.”

”Analingus? … You know … rimming?”

I nodded.

“Yes or No?” She sounded annoyed by my lack of verbal response.


”Anal? … Do you like …. sodomya ? … Giving and receiving?”

”Yes, ee … both.”

“You like golden showers? Umihi? Urine games? Piss drinking?”


My eyes were drawn to the small “Hitler mustache” of black pubic hair, just above her twitching cock, as it beaded with even more delicious precum.

“Scat? … Shit play?”

“… er … Sometimes … I mean yes, if it was with you.”

“So that’s a yes?” she ticked the box and didn’t wait for me to elaborate, “Are you attracted to the idea of succubi? … To fornicating with sexual demons?”

“Yes … I am.”

She grinned broadly. Her narrow hips pumped back and forth slowly as she talked.

“Hmmmm … What about paganism? Diyablo? Occult? Bruha? The dark arts?”

”Errr … ” I fumbled.

She read my hesitation as my being unclear about the nature of her question.

“Have you ever imagined taking part in a Black Mass? … Devil worship? … Aswang? … You know … da smell of sulfur … black robe … candle … inverted crucifix … phallus … blasphemy … piss and semen drinking … menstrual blood … masturbation dancing … sex on the demonic altar? … Or maybe something even more sordid … like the rape ritual of an underage boy … you know what I mean … sodomizing him before a life-size effigy … of the Black Baphomet?”

“YES!” I snapped, “All of them.”

“Excellent,” she said putting down the clipboard, “You may call me, Tyra. And I’m a fucking diva … see?”

Tyra took off her open-toed high-heels and stood barefoot in front of me. I was slightly taller than her, by maybe about two inches. She placed her hands on my shoulders. The touch of her fingertips was tantalizing. Skin to skin. She smelt funky close-up, like my dirty unwashed cock and ass. Pheromones maybe? It made me even more horny.

The darkness felt electric around us. The small hairs on my neck stood on end. It felt as if we were being watched —voyeuristically — but I liked the sensation.

My cock began to drip with an even more slippery precum. Tyra’s body drew mine closer and closer until our hips finally pressed together. Our cocks pressed together. Tyra’s cock was dripping with precum too. She looked into my eyes as we slowly rotated our hips and ground our groins against one other, frotting harder and harder together.

Tyra’s tongue snakes out and wet her painted black lips. She leaned forward and kissed my lips hard. Pressing my lips open to accept her invading tongue.

“They have been observing your activities on the dark web,” she whispered into my ear.

”They? …” I began to ask.

”Shhhhh … they’re watching us now …”



“Deep into that darkness peering, long I stood there, wondering, fearing, doubting, dreaming dreams no mortal ever dared to dream before.” — Edgar Allan Poe. “Inner demons feed on mind games. trust me, keeping them satisfied with my own twisted way of thinking.” ― Efrat Cybulkiewicz

When you edge … tell me … what do you look at? Is it the nastiest shit that you can find, right? It says a lot about us … doesn’t it?

Do you want to see an attractive feminine face on a young, wiry body, with a cock between her legs? — I know I do — I know I am supposed to want to see a pussy down there, but every time I look at porn … I want “her” to have a cock … it can be a flaccid cock. It can be a hard cock. It can be a big cock or a small cock. It can be that she’s rubbing her cock furiously as she spurts her salty seed all over the place. Fuck, I love that! Spurt after spurt. Delicious. It makes you want to get down on your knees; worship her; as you suck her cock; lick her dirty brown eye; or feel her sheboi cock deep in your unworthy bowels.

But, I must say, I do love to see her piss. Not in some toilet bowl (that’s so lame). Not that watery clear stuff either. I want to see the dark amber variety. I want to watch her, guiding her hot salty piss stream, over her smooth flat stomach and narrow hips; up over her flat chest and pointy dark nipples; wetting her delicate neck and long fake blond hair; and full blast into her open slutty mouth as her thick tongue lulls out to catch her golden piss. I love to see her guzzling down her own brew — like it’s the nectar of the gods.

I have always been a pissophile. What about you?

Later. Later. I know it doesn’t make sense. Sorry, I lose myself in my own narcissistic lust. And I seem to be all over the place right now. Apologies in advance … But there’s a lot more to tell …


So there I was, with Tyra.

Like entangled lovers, we lay together on the moist dirty mattress. Our bodies stank off our combined piss. Initially wet and slippery, the urea had dried with a concoction of our sexual sweat and spent cum — it made the room smell funky with its exquisite aroma.

She’d fucked me hard, sticking her dark-skinned cock up my ass.

Tyra had stuck her perfect five-inch cock in my mouth and then in my tight little ass … and then back into my mouth again. There was something so base and primal about tasting the inside of your own colon on her throbbing dirty cock. Ass-to-mouth. Licking off the ass-butter. It made me harder than ever. I loved it when I felt her bony hips bumping hard against my rump as her cock penetrated deeply into your nether hole. I’d cum so hard. Fuck. I cannot remember an orgasm like it (for quite a while).

We began kissing — Kissing her fat lips and whorish mouth — Kissing deeply — Kissing for a long time as our bodies touched each other. Our hard little cocks rubbed against each other as I tasted her slutty mouth. Her pierced tongue felt just that extra bit pervy. Our tongues dueled and danced back and forth; as we frotted so desperately against one another.

“Oh Tyra …” I moaned softly over and over in the intimacy of the darkness.

She broke off our kiss and began to slide down my body; until her slutty sissy face was opposite my groin. My cock twitched in anticipation. My hips bucked as if they had a mind of their own.

She’d started to gently lick and suck my cock. She squeezed and teased my sweaty little balls. Her pierced tongue pressed against my piss slit; as her mouth moved up and down my short cock shaft, carnivorously. Her slender fingers had quickly found my oily little asshole. They threatened to burrow upwards. First it was one finger that wormed its way inside my guts. Then two fingers penetrated me; working in-and-out to the second knuckle; and grinding against my sensitive prostate as her hungry jaws devoured my cock.

I bathed in the sensation of her oral dexterity. Fuck, she could suck cock. What would my ex-girlfriend say? She hated it. Refused to do anything that she considered to be “unclean” — and no matter how clean it actually was — “cleanliness was next to godliness” would always take precedence.

Tyra had asked me about devil worship. About the Black Mass. About ritualized sex. Making an offering to Satan. Her infernal questions hit a delicate nerve.

Maybe that spinning light shade seemed to echo my most blasphemous of fetishes … How I had always been infatuated with the idea of a remote monastery filled with pious nuns all desperate for “sexual release” whilst dressed in those rough shapeless habits and cowls; and wayward priests (that all loved to fuck little choir boys) all ready to be on bent knee before the Cock of Satan … And as the images span around in the furtive darkness; those simple witches and horned demons seemed to come almost alive and dance before me, urging me to join them in their dark worship of the corrupted Devil’s phallus.

Like you, I had wondered about that old analog television and videotape player. What exactly was its purpose?

I guess — I was about to find out.

As we lay together, the screen came to life. First, it was just “white noise” — that static snow — and that scratchy sound that accompanies it. It was rather loud filling the small room. Then the tape began to clear to reveal a room … a small dark room, not so dissimilar to the one we were in. The crude hand-held camera focused on a soft feminine figure that could have been Tyra. Was it Tyra? It kind of looked like her. All naked and androgynous. She wore a demonic horned mask that covered her eyes and upper face — obscuring her identity.

The television picture was still kind of fuzzy and very jerky. There was nothing professional about the camera work. Yes, it must be her. I was sure it was Tyra. The masked demon was masturbating herself. Pounding her five-inch cock and laughing at the camera as she played with herself — as if it was some kind of strip-tease.

”What’s this?” I asked.

“Shhhhhh …” she replied with her finger to her fat wet lips.

Tyra’s fingers wrapped around my cock and began to masturbate at the same pace as the masked demon was doing to herself in the crude video.

The camera turned in the darkness to expose another naked figure. A boy. A very young boy. He was bound over, what appeared like a black-padded saw-horse. His limbs were fastened to the legs of this bizarre BDSM contraption. He was sobbing openly into the camera. He begged them, “Let me go.” But I knew intuitively that that wasn’t likely to happen any time soon. Even in the low light and poor videoing, you could see that his face looked red, flushed, and tear-stained. His hair was matted in sweat or maybe it was piss? I couldn’t tell. There was a kind of paganism to the background sound, like a shaman drum, festive tambourine, and chime bells. It gave the whole situation an ethereal feeling. The crude camera moved around as the masked demon stood in front of the young boy — her groin at his face level.

“You want me to stop it?” asked Tyra, but knew my answer in advance.

A test? She meant the videotape. No. I shook my head. The right answer — her fingers gripped my cock even tighter — rewarding me, as she rubbed me harder and faster. My heart raced again. I gasped and groaned under her total masturbatory control.

“You like it? Don’t you? You perverted fucker!” she said grinning broadly.

The “Tyra” on the videotape, the masked demon, slapped the weeping boy’s face hard several times and forced him to take her cock into his childish little mouth. A privilege, as far as I was concerned. In one of her hands, she held a short cane. The punishment seemed imminent. The boy seemed initially reluctant, but ultimately compliant with the demon’s instructions.

“Suck me, you fucker!” Her voice even sounded like Tyra’s high-pitched Filipina accent.

She held the boy tightly and thrust her hard little cock in and out, raping his unwilling mouth … stopping only to cane him if he displeased her. The sucking sounds were accompanied by the boy’s continued sobbing. His ass cheeks were already crisscrossed with stinging red marks .. evidence of Tyra’s displeasure. Snot ran from the boy’s nostrils. His face was also marked by her sharp slaps of viciousness. The masked demon’s hips pump to the rhythm of the ritual beat. Their collective groans (one of enjoyment, the other of sufferance) were audible as the masked demon fucked the boy’s pathetic face.

The camera panned around. It briefly cast over elements of what looked like a Black Mass. Just as Tyra had spelled out to me … “Devil worship? … Aswang? … You know … da smell of sulfur … black robe … candle … inverted crucifix … phallus … blasphemy … piss and semen drinking … menstrual blood … masturbation dancing … sex on the demonic altar? … Or maybe something even more sordid … like the rape ritual of an underage boy … you know what I mean … sodomizing him before a life-size effigy … of the Black Baphomet?” …

Other robed figures watched as they all stood in a close circle. But they were just out of focus — hidden in the surrounding darkness. They chanted to the pagan beat. An unfamiliar language. Latin, Sanskrit, Enochian, Kabbalah, Theban, Hebrew?

In, what was nothing more than a momentary glimpse, there were a myriad of black candles surrounding an ominous dark effigy with an erect phallus and female breasts — a Baphometic deity, that was expectant of a blood sacrifice.

Another masked figure now positioned himself at the boy’s rear — between his parted thighs. The figure’s body looked wiry and thin. Such pale flesh and so familiar?

The chanting had increased. The beat seemed even more incessant. Another brief glimpse showed that the robed audience was masturbating. Was this the “they” that she had mentioned earlier? They — who watched us? — But the darkness concealed much and it was impossible to make out any details.

The second masked figure held the boy’s thighs and pressed his cock head against his rear. He pushed. The boy reeled in obvious discomfort. An anal virgin sodomized for the glory of their dark Baphometic god. He pushed again, harder. His hips pressed against the boy’s soft young buttocks. The boy tensed up and his painful objections were muffled against the masked Tyra’s cock. Both the masked “Tyra” and her male companion began to thrust mercilessly into the boy’s holes — skewering him between them.

Watching this had brought me very close to another climax. I could feel the unstoppable pressure as it swelled up inside my groin. My sacred chakras screamed for release.

“Remember?” asked Tyra.

Her voice echoed in my mind, as I watched, as if I were outside of myself. The sexual sounds from the video seemed to urge me to ejaculate. Demanding me to ejaculate to its primitive beat.


The masked “Tyra” in the video held the wriggling boy firmly as she gasped and quivered as she pumped her semen into his open mouth. There was too much and as she pulled back — spurt after spurt — her delicious cum shot out over his lips, up his nose and into his eye sockets. She gasped and pulled away her demon mask. Yes, it was definitely her. Tyra grinned evilly into the lens of the shaky camera.

Tyra’s fingers eagerly pumped my cock. I was over the edge. I began to ejaculate, shooting my sourish semen over the both of us.


I look over at the television screen. In the grainy video, the masked male ejaculated deep into the boy’s ass. He whipped off his demonic mask too, and looked directly into the camera — my heart stopped — it couldn’t be?

It was me.


Do you ever suffer from a loss of sleep? I mean, night after night, no peace … just tossing and turning in the bedclothes? I tried everything. Nothing works. It’s like torture sometimes … making you a zombie during the day and paranoid in the dark … Do you ever get that sense of constant anxiety?

I’ve heard people talk about panic attacks, when you feel like everything is going haywire; like you’re going to choke. It’s not just a shortness of breath or pressure against the wall of your chest. It’s like there are hands around your throat … choking you out …

Am I going crazy?

Did I completely imagine everything in this fragile state? The whole abduction thing seems absurd, right? Who would abduct me? And what about the rape ritual? Was that all in my head too? Maybe both?

Sometimes I get so confused.

The lines are always blurring. Sometimes I forget. Sometimes I seem to lose time. Sometimes I get lost in the darkness, unable to determine between reality and make-believe, as it all blends together in a cocktail of blackness. But that doesn’t mean that I have regrets about it. Quite the contrary. Sometimes losing control is the only way to find yourself.

Your true self.

Has that ever happened to you?

Those times, when I just don’t know if it is a dream or if it is real, can be very enlightening. Honestly, I couldn’t remember sodomizing that young boy. I mean, if you’re asking … could I have actually done something like that? You know … against his will? Fucked him hard? Fucked him while he cried and stuff? Enjoying his suffering. That’s abuse … I know I shouldn’t say this … but I’m going to say it anyway … yes … it turns me on … I don’t know why. I couldn’t figure out how it was that I’d been in some crazy fucked-up Black Mass, guided by this blasphemous Angel of Darkness …

I’m talking about Tyra.

Am I losing my mind?


So what do I think I remember? I vaguely recall the obscure figures at the Black Mass that surrounded me on all sides. It all seemed a little predictable … as their satanic robes had been open. I could see that they were all rubbing their small androgynous breasts (more like bumps) and all were masturbating their stiff cocks — encouraging my own wickedness — as they chanted blasphemously in some obscure language.

“Tasa Reme Laris Satan, Ave Satanas! Tasa Reme Laris Satan, Ave Satanas!”

I didn’t understand, at the time, what that meant, but their strange words seemed to inspire my downward spiral into the corruptive darkness. There had been the shaman-like music — that I found my hips jerking back and forth — as the sound of the thumping pagan beat got louder and louder … all conspiring to drive me insane with unnatural lust.

The candles, like tiny sparks of evil energy, illuminate their looming transgendered idol. The giant idol of the Baphomet. Its savage goat head, pert breasts, and rising, erect and prone, from between its hairy thighs; the sword phallus of Satan — It was the twin-sex Goddess of Darkness — the embodiment and transcendence of Satan and Lilith — a merger of perverted unholiness.

All I knew, intuitively, was that this wasn’t the first time that Tyra and I had done this. It was obvious that we’d both done this before. I mean … we’d done it many times and it was well-practiced. A perverse sexual rite in honor of our dark demoness. There was movement around us; someone was videoing the entire ritual. Like a buzzing fly. I ignored it — as I was already lost in lust — diving into my mind pool of excessive wantonness.

The young preteen boy was tied down. He wriggled desperately against his tight bindings, as he lay across the contraption that gave me full access to his well-lubricated anus; and that, at the same time, gave Tyra access to his mouth. My cock was so damn hard as I pressed it to his virgin boy cunt. Tyra slapped the young boy’s face hard several times. She had caned him too. The sound of her thin cane whistling through the air and then his screams of suffering had excited both of us.

She could be so gentle; and then other times; she could be so sadistic. Tyra’s Asian slit-like eyes were like black beads of evil as she dealt out the punishment. They stared into mine, daring me, as she began to vigorously face-fuck the boy’s unwilling mouth.

Was someone supposed to save the boy from this fate? Was this what the Abrahamic God would have wanted? Would heaven intervene? Nobody was going to rescue anyone. Nobody objected to our miscreant behaviors. In fact, the chanting and beating of the drum seemed to only condone it … to demand it … to inspire even greater wickedness.



“We don’t fall in love with people because they’re good people. We fall in love with people whose darkness we recognize. You can fall in love with a person for all of the right reasons, but that kind of love can still fall apart. But when you fall in love with a person because your monsters have found a home in them — that’s the kind of love that owns your skin and bones — Love, I am convinced, is found in the darkness. It is the candle in the night.” ― JoyBell

My apologies in advance. Sometimes my recollections come and go — or can fall out of me in random order. I told you about Rachel, right? Well, towards the end of our relationship — the only way l could manage to get a hard-on whilst fucking her, was to imagine that I was fucking some young boy in the ass. Terrible, I know. But her cunt was kind of boring. My cock wasn’t that big. It never felt tight like an anus (gripping my rod as I fucked a tight little taboo hole). I would have loved to fuck her in the ass, but that was not okay with Rachel. She didn’t even like giving me head.

I remember the first time I met Tyra was at a strange occult shop.

I visited this establishment because of a drunk conversation with some random guy at a bar. He’d said something about an occult shop in Chinatown. Run-down place. He’d laughed about the name “Madam Cox Tarot” — and mumbled stuff about it being evil, sex demons, sodomy, and transgendered sex — all of which caught my attention.

The occult shop was in some rundown basement. Nothing much to look at. You had to walk down the steep steps to reach the shopfront and the entry. From the outside, all you saw was a small sign that read “Madam Cox Tarot”. It was late in the afternoon and I had been drinking. My mind wasn’t exactly focused at the time when I stumbled into the dark interior.

Inside it looked like a cross between Mary Laveau’s House of Voodoo and Satan’s Cavern. The eclectic decor was a mishmash of stuff. Voodoo stuff. Satanic stuff. Occult stuff. Perverted sex stuff. The realm of dark transgendered goddesses and phallic sodomic demons. It smelt funky too — much like a glory hole — and there she sat, the androgynous spiritual medium, amongst it all. She looked fucking hot. As I approached, she got up from behind a glass counter, dressed alluringly in translucent black chiffon.

She asked me if I wanted a reading done. I said that I did and she told me to follow her. After she turned a sign hanging in the door window and locked the shop door we walked to the rear of the shop.

I followed her into the small windowless backroom, which was blasphemously decorated with strange hanging sigils and phallic symbology. The dark backroom had a small altar covered with the trappings of devil worship. My mind reeled and I immediately became sexually aroused.

She lit several black and red candles and then gestured that I should remove my shoes and socks and sit down on the cushioned floor. We sat opposite each other over a low table covered in a velvet black cloth.

The room smelt strongly of incense that seemed to purposefully hide the stench of other more acrid odors. It was almost unpleasantly warm. I felt myself beginning to sweat. She asked me to make myself comfortable. I tried to relax but everything was conspiring to excite me sexually — I had gotten a hard-on, so I sat down quickly, hoping that it was unnoticed.

The spiritual medium took out the pack of Tarot cards from a black velvet bag and shuffled them in her delicate ringed fingers. Her black chiffon top was almost transparent and I found myself staring at her flattish boy-like chest and tiny coned nipples. I subconsciously licked my lips. She smiled at my tell-tale reaction. I felt a little embarrassed, but she put her hand over mine and smiled again. She placed my hand onto the deck of tarot cards. Her hand felt moist to the touch and I immediately found myself thinking how her small fingers would feel wrapped around my aching cock. I desperately needed to be masturbated.

She asked me to cut the pack. I did.

The first card that the spiritual medium turned over was the Eight of Swords (upright). The image showed a naked man in bondage surrounded by tall vertical eight swords — like a prison. This wasn’t your usual Rider-Waite pack. The young male was illustrated with an erect penis whilst his eyes were blindfolded and hands bound behind his back.

She paused and studied the card for a moment and then asked if I was sexually frustrated … I hesitated. She said that I needed to be totally honest during the reading — otherwise, it would be a waste of my time and hers — I clumsily confessed that I found it progressively difficult to get an erection with my girlfriend. Yes, she said. Yes, she understood. She said that she’d got the spiritual vibrations and that my erotic interests were unfulfilled. She added that you have to have a cock to know how to truly pleasure one. She adjusted her position behind the low table … that is when I noticed that I was not the only one to have an erection. My cock throbbed in my lap at the sight of her small endowment.

She turned to the next card, it was one of the Major Arcana … the Tower card. Three naked figures, one male, one female, and one transgendered, toppled from the top of the burning phallic tower accompanied by lightning and destruction. I asked if that meant something bad. She said that it depends. It could simply mean change … for the better or the worse … something ending and something beginning. She asked if I minded if she masturbated herself … she said it helped with the dark energy … she said it would be better if we both were naked and masturbated ourselves as she continued the reading. Of course, I didn’t object. I undressed. She undressed. We both sat opposite each other with our cocks in our hands.

The next card was the Devil (inverted). The card depicted the naked Baphometic demon. The demon had both breasts and an enormous black cock. There were two chained figures, both naked and kneeling before it. Servitude. Sacrilege. Worship.

The-spiritual medium seemed particularly pleased to see this card as she continued to stroke her five-inch cock. I matched her rhythm, stroking myself eagerly in front of her. I asked her what the card meant. She said it was the card of total sexual obsession — of wickedness, perversity, and debasement — she added that it meant that the both of us would need to pay homage to Satan.

She asked if I needed to urinate and handed me a small silver chalice. I peed noisily into it and she took the half-filled cup back. She brought the cup and its contents under her nose and sniffed at my urine, as one would smell the bouquet of a fine wine. And then to my complete surprise, she drank its content. All of it. The spiritual medium licked her black-painted lips. She then urinated into the chalice and gave it back to me. She told me to drink it. To drink all of it. I looked at the briny dark yellow liquid in the chalice. I could smell its salty acridness. The-spiritual medium said that it would complete the meaning of the third card — of the inverted demon — and that our dark energy would be joined in unison.

I put the lip of the chalice to my eager pissophile lips. I stroked myself faster.

“Drink it,” she encouraged, “Drink the elixir of sacrilege … the Devil’s sacramental wine.”

I gulped it down and wanted more. I wanted lots more. A great thirst came over me. I wanted to drink from the source. I wanted her to piss down my throat whilst I sucked upon her cock.

“Only after you have offered your anus to me,” she said, “Kneel before the Devil, so I may sodomize you. And only then may you drink my unholy piss and receive the blessing of my desecrated seed.”


Do you believe in Magick? Not fairytale magic crap … but truly dark and evil Black Magick … stuff where demons possess the weak and reward the wicked?

I do.

I haven’t always believed, but there comes a point when everyday explanations no longer suffice. Was Tyra some kind of pagan witch? — Magician? Sorceress? Seer? Or maybe she was possessed by a sex demon or a succubus? Her dark energy consumed me — I felt that I was on the edge of a dark cloud that was about to swallow me whole. That within this darkness there would be no escape. No return. No way out … but, at the same time, it beckoned me like the lullaby of the sirens, calling me to crash against the rocks. A certainty of death or liberation? Her dark magick was intoxicating — a drug like no other.

There’s more to tell. If you want to hear it?


The phone rang. It was Rachel. My ex. Remember her? Yer. She called me out of the blue. Babbled on about shit. I just wanted to get off the line, when she said something that completely caught me off guard. I mean that my jaw dropped.

She had always been a good Christian girl. Church every Sunday. Receiving the host. Confession. The whole nine yards; including prayers at the dinner table and reading her Bible. Yer, she knew lots of scriptures and stuff. Her parents had sent her to Sunday school (like mine) … and she always wore her heavy gold crucifix around her neck.

Now, I told you about her attitude towards sex. And how she dumped me, because of my proclivity for dark things.

She’d said to me many times, “Why do you like these dark things? It’s not healthy, you know? It’s the devil’s work!”

I laughed at it. Maybe one time too many. Well, she was going to have the last laugh … She told me that she’d met someone. At first, I congratulated her and genuinely meant it. But then she said that she’d like me to meet her. Her. Yes, she said that she wanted me to meet “Her” … was Rachel turning against her religious values. How could she be a dyke? A les-be-friends? A rug muncher? No fucking way.

Honestly, I didn’t see that coming. Well, curiosity killed the cat. Okay, I said, I agreed to meet her.

We met in Chinatown at a coffee shop, ironically not far from “Madam Cox Tarot” … I got there first and sat outside at one of the little cast iron tables on the street or patio. I’d ordered a double espresso and waited impatiently. Rachel appeared and sat opposite me. She looked different. Her make-up was different. Her hair was shortly cropped and her nail varnish was no longer pink but black. Was this the new Goth Rachel? I laughed to myself. What the fuck had got into her. A Goth muff-diver? As I said, she’d have the last laugh on me.

I stood up and we hugged momentarily.

“Sorry, I was a little late,” said Rachel (in a way that made her apology sound redundant), “But thanks for waiting, yer such a sweetie.” I hate being called sweetie or cutie. Fuck I hate that. “I know we didn’t part on exactly good terms, but I wanted to apologize to you.”

This was so cryptic.

“Apologize to me?”

“Yes. I realize now, why things were not working out for us. And it wasn’t your fault. I am really sorry for that. I thought at one time that I wanted to be married and have children … that my family would be all good church-going Christians … I looked forward to their birth, christening, and confirmation … I had it all planned out in my mind … just like in the Bible.”

I drank my espresso.

“And then, she came into my life. And all that changed.”


I wasn’t sure what the fuck she was talking about until after we said goodbye (having formally accepted her apology for dumping me). I followed her. She didn’t know. It felt like some kind of spy game. She goes down the steep stairs and into the basement shop. Yes. Madam Cox Tarot, no less. Was the “She” that my ex mentioned anything to do with slutty little Tyra? It couldn’t be. Could it? Rachel was so conservative. Rachel was so damn heterosexual.

The next thing I knew — I found myself at the bottom of the stairs — the front door was unlocked (though the sign said “closed”). I carefully opened the door and entered the shop quietly. Inside it was very warm. I mean too damn hot. The air itself seemed to vibrate with its own kind of erotic energy. I could hear the sound of soft feminine moaning.

Remember, I asked you about black magick, right?

So, what I saw defied my understanding. From the rear doorway, I peered in. I could see that Tyra’s dirty demonic grotto had been transformed into what appeared to be a sacred chapel. No longer dark and satanic. It was brightly lit with many long white candles and bathed in an ethereal light that spilled in from tall stain-glass windows that accentuated the lofty ceiling and white alabaster walls.

Was it some kind of trick? Or magick?

There was a low altar decorated with all the trappings of saintliness. I could see Rachel as she knelt with her back to me. She was dressed in a black hooded netted robe (underneath which, I could see she was naked). The soft feminine sound was Rachel masturbating herself with her fingers, before the large golden crucifix with the tortured and twisted body of Christ upon it.

I felt like I was watching that strange satanic ritual on videotape again.

Tyra appeared dressed similarly to Rachel. Her delicious little flat chest, dark puffy nipples, and fully erect cock were all clearly visible through the netted robe. She was chanting something out loud in a language I was unfamiliar with; as my ex seemed intent on her sacrilegious masturbation. My ex never touched herself. My ex never contemplated masturbation. She thought it would invite the aswang or “unclean” spirits … that it was an unforgivable sin … that it was to pollute oneself with demonic sacrilege. But there she was; and even from behind; I could see her busy hands between her open legs.

Fucking crazy.

I saw Tyra pull back her black-netted hood to reveal her freshly shaven head. Her stark baldness only enhanced her provocative sexuality. I was drooling. As she slipped the hood over her shoulders, Rachael revealed that she too was completely shaven. I could only imagine that at the coffee shop, she must have been wearing a wig.

Tyra started to moan blasphemously as she rubbed her wet bruhu dick desperately.

I half expected Rachel to get up and flee from the scene … but she didn’t … instead her self-debasement only got even more intense and more desperate. Upon the wall, I saw that as the large gold crucifix began to turn anticlockwise … all of its own accord … inverting the savior and creator in yet another sign of devilment.

Rachel’s groin shimmered with wetness as she began to squirt; her hot salty liquids sprayed uncontrollably across the low altar and over the gold crucifix as it continued to turn. As soon as the huge golden crucifix reached its true “Inverted” position … the brightness in their little holy chapel immediately dulled and an eerie crimson glow filled the room.

Then came the thumping of bamboo drums. As they began to Tboli beat, a third figure emerged from within the secretive darkness. A femme fatale. A shape-changer. She stood almost six feet tall. At first, she appeared as an aswang … ghostly aberration; only a shadow in the crimson darkness. But the shadow form soon took distinction. The tall figure’s head was shaved. Her skin was of shimmering ebony. Black skin with an oily wetness. Both Tyra and Rachel began to kowtow, as this mysterious new creature took center stage.

Tyra turned and looked me in the eye. I was no longer a fly on the wall. I was standing, shaking in disbelief. Rachel turned to look at me too. This wasn’t the same woman that I had ever dated. There was something carnivorous in her eyes. Something far more exciting.

Then all eyes turned to the newcomer — whose slim figure revealed her true androgynous form. My eyes momentarily cast over her slender black neck, her bony shoulders, her black-coned breasts crested with thick long nipples … her hips pumped back and forth, gyrating to the angry tribal beat; as she stroked her impossible long black sword as it stood upright from between her overly thin thighs.

I would later learn that she was a black bruhu (witch) that went by the name Divine. Her huge nine-inch cock drooled with pearly precum; as it perched upon the two low-hanging sacks of her full testicles. Tyra and Rachel knelt on either side of her. The black bruhu sat back upon the altar (as if it were her devilish throne).

“Bring the white boy forward,” ordered the black bruhu.




If you have enjoyed this story or would like to offer praise to the author, who is always hungry for encouragement and affirmation, please email xpanther2019@protonmail.com