DISCLAIMER: The following is fiction. The story’s content 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 as 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 they are depicting but they remain at all times adults. All Rights Reserved © 2024 LITTLESALLY666.
STORY CODES: Religious Themes, Supernatural, LGBT themes, WS, Scat, Blasphemy, Sacrilege, Sodomy, Young, Devil Worship, NC, Abuse, Rape, and Snuff
CREATED: 02.09.2024 (FINAL)
VII – Chariot
THE SECRET MEANING BEHIND THE CHARIOT:
The Chariot is the seventh card of the major Arcana. It connotes excessive sexual power, welded in a deviant and controlling way. Just as the aggressive chariot rider whips his or her horses — the master or mistress whips their willing or unwilling partners into a complete sexual frenzy. The Chariot draws power and uses it over others in a way that defines their relationships. With the furtive crack of the horsewhip, it’s about unbridled orgies of sensual worship, praying to darker sexual gods or goddesses upon their knees — offering their mouth, vaginas, and anuses — in absolute homage.
INSPIRATION FOR THE CHARIOT
Thanks to Mick and his reference to an article posted on LS666 back on 27.02.2022, titled “Black Mass” by Occult World. It referenced books by the banned novelist, J.K. Huysmans — his tetralogy that tracks the character Durtal and his spiritual journey. The main character, Durtal is a thinly veiled version of Huysmans himself, the sequence of novels begins with ‘Là-bas’, and is followed by ‘En Route’, ‘La Cathédrale’ and ‘L’oblat’ …
Article link (LS666): https://littlesally666.com/black-mass-by-occult-world-non-fiction/
Article link (Messy Booker): https://messybooker.wordpress.com/2021/06/10/la-bas-j-k-huysmans-tr-brendan-king/
SYNOPSIS OF THE CHARIOT
It is the late nineteen century in France. Our protagonist, Durtal, is taken by his androgynous colleague, Hyacinthe, to a dingy chapel used by Ursuline nuns, who have supposedly become possessed by Satan. They now worship him as Satanists. Among the participants is a debauched nun, called Elixa. A choking incense of henbane, datura, dried nightshade, and myrrh is burned. After a mass of obscenities, blasphemies, and the desecration of the host — seemingly transformed by black magick, the place erupts in a monstrous pandemonium of shemale demons and sexual maniacs. The participants, high on the fumes, tear off their clothes, and writhe on the floor, changing sexually before Durtal and Hyacinthe. The couple are firstly shocked but are soon seduced, as they witness and are drawn into countless acts of depravity. Once inculcated into this den of iniquity, Elixa, a cock-welding, High Priestess of Satan, takes them both to the Hell-Fire Club, a fraternal group in the dingy side of London. It is said that they perform a Black Mass regularly in worship of Satan — though some may consider the rites as little more than drug-fueled, sexual perversity.
CHARACTERS OF THE CHARIOT (IN ORDER OF APPEARANCE)
- Durtal — our protagonist, male (35)
- Hyacinthe — an effeminate and androgynous acquaintance of Durtal (26)
- Sister Elisa aka Elixa — one of the Ursuline Nuns, turned High Priestess of Satan (32)
- Sebastian — an effeminate Magus at the Hellfire Club (28)
THE CHARIOT — CHAPTER ONE (2,374 WORDS)
My name is Durtal. I am a French writer. So, please forgive my poor use of the English language.
This is a short record of my journey into dark spiritualism that began, oddly enough, through my research into Gilles de Rais. He was a knight, serving in the French army, together with Joan of Arc. More notably de Rais, after Arc’s burning at the stake, became erratic, a misotheist, hating the Abrahamic church, and eventually turning to the dark side of the occult. The church accused him of kidnapping, raping, and murdering hundreds of young boys. He admitted his guilt and was executed by hanging and burning, back in October 1440.
My research about de Rais uncovered not only the horrendous torture and sexual defilement that these young boys suffered but also through my investigations, sparked an unsavory interest in contemporary satanic practices. I found myself fascinated, even “si ce n’est pas obsédé” (obsessed), with everything to do with it — from death spells, black masses, sacrilegious potions, Baphometic symbolism, fallen priests and nuns, the act of sodomy, to every kind of blasphemy — from verbal sacrilege to sexual use of religious objects, to the defiling of the host.
Over time, I have come to acknowledge the multi-layered, complex narrative as I explored the darkness — where Satanism, the occult, and my pursuit of a sinful life — had consequences beyond. As the cycle of sexual encounters unfolded, I came to appreciate that “en route” (the road), it was not hell but purgatory where my struggles with which road to take occurred … the road, that is, to “là-haut” (heaven), or the road to “là-bas” (hell)?
My accomplice in this dark endeavor was Hyacinthe. My dearest Hyacinthe. We had become acquainted and I had taken an immediate interest in her. At the time, I had never contemplated sex with anything other than a woman. You see, Hyacinthe appeared outwardly as a pretty young woman, always affectionate, feminine, and tender — but that wasn’t the Hyacinthe that I came to know.
Hyacinthe’s thin, androgynous physique hid the fact that she was male between her legs. Her cock was always hard and in bed, Hyacinthe was a complete “putain de coq” (cock whore), spitting out the most blasphemous filth, and completely lost to all that was shameful. How, she encouraged, the worst of me. She was, among many things, a ruthless minx, and truly, nasty, satanic bitch. Perverted sex with her was like nothing else I had experienced.
She was both seductive and addictive. And to be honest, now, a woman that doesn’t have a cock, isn’t a woman that’s for me.
It was Hyacinthe who introduced me to many occult things. She opened my eyes to the sexual pleasure of “sodomie ritualisée” (ritualized sodomy). Another of these many things, was Sister Elisa, or Elixa as she was also known. Elixa was as debauched as Hyacinthe. She was one of the Ursuline Nuns who had turned to worship Satan. As Elixa, she had the self-professed title of “Grande Prêtresse de Satan” (High Priestess of Satan), and together with the other Ursuline Nuns, was said to practice sexual witchcraft and black magick.
Hyacinthe had suggested that we travel from Paris to their secretive church and chapel that no longer was a place of Abrahamic worship. It was an unholy place. An evil place. At the time, I was unsure what to expect, only that, in the interest of my research, it posed a unique opportunity to possibly witness, that which had absorbed me both intellectually … and dare I say, sexually.
xxxxx
By the time we had arrived, by horse-drawn carriage, it was already dusk. The outline of the chapel spire stood upright against the burned red sky. I wasn’t sure if it was the eeriness, isolation, or my imagination, that had my anxiety peaking, in this god-forsaken place.
An unnamed young nun, dressed in a simple black robe and wimple, met us. She ushered Hyacinthe and me into the refectory, next to the chapel. The journey had been rather long and we welcomed their hospitality. The young, pretty nuns offered us some simple food and drink.
To be honest, I was a little disappointed at first as everything appeared to be as I would have expected in a pious setting and there seemed to be nothing out of the ordinary. That was all about the change.
Sister Elisa arrived and she looked joyous at our presence. She obviously knew Hyacinthe well, and she kissed her, on the mouth. My memory of it was of a kiss that was very intimate in nature — with lips and tongues — more appropriate for two passionate lovers.
Sister Elisa was introduced to me and Hyacinthe told her about my research into the highly sexualized rituals of the darkest corners of the occult. I asked about why the Ursuline Sisterhood had chosen to become worshipers of Satan. Sister Elisa explained that the Abrahamic faith was weak and powerless — that the Sisterhood had found the truth … that Satan was the ruler of all earthly desire, that his road led to pleasure.
As we talked, it occured to me that Hyacinthe and Sister Elisa had fornicated together during their worship of Satan. I began to be excited by the thought of Hyacinthe and the nun performing perverted and blasphemous acts together. Sin and sex. Sex and sin. How delicious it was.
My thoughts were interrupted when Sister Elisa said something about how — keen observers quickly became keen participants — as the night’s ritual drew to its high climax. She also cautioned me that I may witness some bizarre and unnatural events but there was nothing to fear from their demonology — unless we were being offered as a “sacrifice impie” (unholy sacrifice).
xxxxx
After being persuaded to change into silky red robes, under which we we both naked, we were both led in bare feet, by a similarly dressed young nun, into what appeared to be the main chapel of the old decrepit church.
As we entered the Ursuline chapel, my ears filled with a bizarrely eerie ethereal music. It was strangely choral but definitely not Christian. As if sang in reverse. Maybe more like primitive vocal gasps and groans, to a rhythmical pagan beating that echoed through the lofty chancel. Soft one moment, a cacophony, the next.
The very air inside seemed to vibrate, filled with a malodorous aroma, and the scene that confronted me was bathed in a devilishly red kind of candlelight. It was an assault upon all my senses. First, hyperaemia, then aural, then visual … as I observed, the chapel no longer had the trappings of any Abrahamic sanctitude.
The huge red stained glass windows depicted scenes of idolatry, sexually engaged naked worshipers with goat-like demons, in their occult design. To one end of the perverted chapel, there hung a huge inverted crucifix, upon which Jesus Christ nailed to its thick beams, was blasphemously depicted devoid of any clothing, so that his erect genitals were on open display. To the other end was an imposing demonic statue, that I recognized as the “dieu des sorcières” (god of witches) — the naked, winged form of the horned Baphomet — an evil erotic image that stirred me, far more than I liked to admit.
Between these two potent icons of evil, dedicated to demonology, the desecrated walls were covered with exquisitely created tapestries. These fine and elaborate artworks depicted medieval orgies of red-skinned demons that possessed both penises and breasts, much like the Baphomet.
Altogether, it was an illicit mesh of glowing red flesh, erect cocks, frottage, fellatio, and sodomy — stirring my loins considerably — strangely, among this curiously feminine entourage of breasted beasts, there seemed to be, not a single vagina depicted.
Hyacinthe had noticed my erection. I felt my mouth go dry and my heart raced. There seemed to be a very haughty atmosphere — as if everyone expected something darkly sexual and almost explosive was about to occur — my senses were heightened by the attendance of so many young and nubile-looking nuns. Their silky red robes, did little to disguise how horny they all were, as they all knelt in a wide semi-circle before the blackened altar, all eagerly rubbing themselves through their silky red adornments.
Among the throng, Hyacinthe pointed out Sister Elise. No longer in her drab wimple and habit. No longer the Sister Elise that I’d first met. No, this was Elixa — the highly sexualized Satanic High Priestess — her costume was dramatic. She wore a pair of large twisting demon horns upon her head. Her red nakedness was emphasized by an erotic body harness that pressed her exposed breasts forward, drawing attention to her thick black nipples, saucer-like areolas, concave rib cage, and downwards to her hairless opening between her splayed legs.
All eyes were on her as she stood aloft, above the chapel floor level that was occupied by the red sea of churning nuns dressed only in their skimpy flowing robes.
Hyacinthe whispered to me, that their High Priestess would urinate into a sacred chalice, that contained both aphrodisiacal and transformational ingredients. A dark magick would soon possess them all. Her urine would activate this potent elixir — as they would begin to sort congress with Satan’s most “sexuel des démons” (sexual of demons). She added that this particular chalice was made from the half-skull of a sacrificed baby. There would be blasphemous prayers offered as the evil nuns continued to furiously masturbate themselves.
Then, she explained, that each of the nuns, in turn, would come forth and kneel directly before their beloved Satanic High Priestess. They would kiss, lick, and use their tongues to penetrate Eliza’s urine-flavored cunt and the crinkled ring of her dirty brown flower, before taking the host and drinking deeply from the half-skull cup.
After this, each nun would remove her red gown, standing naked, and sacrilegiously press the host into her itchy anus. This was a sign of her devotion to Satan’s sex magick. Once this initiation had been completed, Hyacinthe whispered, they would call upon the most depraved of sexual demons to possess their minds, bodies, and souls …
I asked her what exactly that meant … and she just smiled wickedly and said that she couldn’t begin to describe their incredible evil and that I would have to wait, and see it, to believe it.
I watched in anticipation as their dark ritual unfolded. It was exactly as Hyacinthe had described it.
I had no comprehension of the strange prayers uttered in an archaic language, or of the urine elixir consumed by the horny nuns, or of the significance of the almost choking smell of incense. I recognized the burning of henbane, datura, dried nightshade, and myrrh — their hallucinogenic essence had been described in the ancient text and was said to bring forth the “incarnation du Baphomet” (embodiment of the Baphomet) — their androgynous demon — to sort sexual congress of the most obscene kind, with its worshipers.
I don’t think anything could have prepared me, for what happened next.
I felt Hyacinthe, who stood immediately behind me, lift my silky gown above my waistline and press the blunt end of her stiff penis between the clef of my ass cheeks. Her cock was like steel. She frotted against me, moaning as she watched as I did.
Her left hand held my hip firmly, while her right wrapped around me. Her forceful fingers found the girth of my precum-coated cock. I was dripping with anticipation and apprehension. She began to masturbate me as I continued to watch — almost horrified — yet excited beyond anything I had previously experienced on my dark journey.
I felt powerless and transfixed as the entire congregation of naked nuns, high on the toxic fumes, all began to tremble and writhe on the chapel floor — their young bodies convulsed — were they changing sexually?
I shifted my focus back to Elixa, their High Priestess, as she stood in a wide stance upon the altar platform. She appeared to be quaking and quivering all over but remained upright — was it a bizarre form of dance or an uncontrollable convulsion as she twitched and jerked? As quickly as it had begun, she stopped suddenly. She screamed something unintelligible with her hands extended high above her upturned head.
Hyacinthe groaned loudly into the nape of my sweating neck, “putain de Dieu, putain de Jésus” (fuck God, fuck Jesus), almost biting me with her teeth, as she stroked my cock faster, and faster, and yet even more. My balls were boiling with the desire for orgasmic release. My orgasm seemed to be close. I felt her shecock rubbing harder against my perineum. Yes, I thought, put it in me. Fuck me for the love of Satan! Yes, fill me now! I knew she was just about to penetrate the opening of my tight rectum, as she began to press her fleshy sword upwards into my dirty bowels.
Meanwhile, as I gazed back towards the Satanic altar, I could see Elixa’s naked body. It seemed to glow with an evil redness, akin to the tapestry depictions of the sexual demons upon the chapel walls. It felt as if my sight were not my own. My body was not my own. Hyacinthe’s cock was now thrusting further into me. I was filled with unholy passion. A sharp pain accompanied by an exquisite pleasure. These sensations were driving me into instant overload.
I kept staring in disbelief at the evil altar, where, before my eyes — I saw Elixa’s vagina begin to change dramatically — first it looked like a fleshy neb that seemed to erupt forwards from her thrusting groin — and where her cunt had been, it now appeared more like pulsating horn-like thing. I swear, I saw something long and thick sticking out at forty-five degrees from her loins.
I blinked as the thing between her legs seemed to telescope outwards even further, transforming into the shape of a huge stallion-like cock. She appeared hermaphroditic. She roared like a lion. Like something unnatural, unholy, unreal. Spittle seemed to bubble and slither from her mouth. Her tongue hung out. Her eyes appeared to glow. Was she ejaculating? She was no longer just the Satanic High Priestess — but the “Baphomet vivant” (living Baphomet) itself!
xxxxx
THE CHARIOT — CHAPTER TWO (2,397 WORDS)
Whatever had transpired that night, in that strange and evil place, had had a fundamental effect on me — whatever I believed had happened — didn’t seem to matter. It was more like the echo of, a bad dream or bizarre nightmare.
Hyacinthe and I had returned to our beloved Paris.
I was a different person, inevitably changed. Now, in my mind, demonology, occult, and black magick were no longer some theoretical constructs, alternative religion, or criminal activities perpetrated by the perverted and murderous, Gilles de Rais — I had experienced something so profound and so disturbing — I just needed to be alone with my thoughts. “Zot Alor” (damn then).
Hyacinthe seemed to understand.
She took me back to my Paris apartment. I needed to think, or maybe, I needed not to think. Once alone, I found a kind of peace in a deep sleep. I curled up in my bed chamber, glad for my solitude.
Time moved forward.
I remained comatose for a day and a half. Maybe it was even longer. And when I awoke from this slumber, it was still dark outside. The clock chimed three in the morning. The anti-hour to the crucifixion of Jesus Christ — It was the witch’s hour— and in August, the Parisian night air was hot and very humid.
I stripped from my sweat-drenched nightshirt and just lay naked upon my unmade bedding. It felt cool as the ceiling fan circulated a warm breeze across my damp skin.
I felt blind in the darkness and for a moment — in my mind — I saw flashes of red. These flashes were accompanied by the memory of Hyacinthe’s shecock bumping against the base of my spine. It was like an electric shock.
She’d once told me about, what she called, the root chakra. The root chakra was supposedly the link to “rouge” (the color red). “Rouge” for passion, for the spilling of blood, for the flowing “rouge” gowns of those perverted nuns, and my possession by sexual demons. These flashes were supposedly the awakening of the Kundalini — the Elohim — the primal serpent, poisoning me with the melee of her toxic bite, just as Hyacinthe’s semen spurted hotly, upwards, inside my guts.
My dreamy scene soon changed evoking the crimson-redness of the wickedness during the chapel ritual. It seemed more like a reddish nightmare grinding in my mind. All the naked nuns no longer resembled normal females. Their intersex genitals were distinctively male. Cocks and testicles. It was as if their bald vaginas had all turned inside-out, a demonic evolution, as they pranced around, prone with erect phalluses, all hell-bent on seeking sexual congress with everything and anything — they were all sex demons on the hunt for human flesh.
Their immorality screamed and moaned with demonic lust.
The pagan drums only beat louder and louder. The chorus of demons screamed profanities and blasphemous prayers to their heinous devil god — the Baphomet. They all wildly stroked their red-skinned shecocks as they began to urinate over themselves and each other. The smell of their hot piss invaded my sensitive nostrils. Some even defecated over the church floor. “Merde” (shit) hanging between the legs as they vulgarly danced about.
Then, they began to copulate, fornicating with each other in all manner of perverted ways. Some self-fellating their own pissing cocks, some coupling, frotting, and sucking each other, while others began to thrust into the nearest rectum as they eagerly sodomized each other.
As I began to recall these memories, almost frame-by-frame, in reddish slow motion … my fist tightened its grip around my throbbing penis … stroking myself faster and faster, as Hyacinthe had done the night of the ritual.
I recalled that there had been a naked young girl, who appeared to be no older than seven or eight — so young and vulnerable — that had been brought forth before the evil idol of the witches. Elixa stroked her huge horse-like cock in time for the beating of ceremonial drums. Her fist clenched tightly around her huge fuck-pole of demonic cock flesh.
She looked down hungrily upon the quivering girl as her horny accomplices brought her front and center. The child tried to turn away, but the demons held her fast. The young girl’s fear was palpable, as they continued to drag her forward towards her unfortunate fate. And her plight only seemed to draw the unsympathetic attention of these evil, sex witches.
It had become a monstrous pandemonium of shemale demons and sexual maniacs screaming for rape.
I could hear Hyacinthe almost snorting in my ears over and over. “Putain de Christ! Putain de Christ!” (Fuck Christ! Fuck Christ!). She then groaned something about watching the sacrifice, as it was to be Satan’s blessing. It was as if she too was willing the rape of this poor and unfortunate child. My sanity said, “Non! Non! Arrêt!” (No! No! Stop!). But my polluted mind began to say, “OUI. Oui, fais-le!” (YES. Yes, do it!)
I saw them lifting the struggling young girl up and over Elixa’s thighs as she rested against the demonic black altar. Then, with cheers of great joy, they impaled the girl’s tiny body upon the High Priestess’ enormous phallus. Her lithe body looked immediately broken as she was devoured by her lover-killer, thrusting and penetrating Satan’s cock into the helpless girl.
All around me, there were deafening screams of the witches, as they seemed to all reach their climax. Their powerful collective orgasm. Their copious semen spurted over their High Priestess and her dead lover.
I couldn’t take anymore. I had to leave. I wanted out. This was beyond my limits. My conscience couldn’t take any more of this. I could hear Hyacinthe laughing out loud, at my act of cowardice but she quickly followed me out, of this red theater of villainous sin. We didn’t speak about what I had witnessed. I had no words. But it occurred to me that it was exactly what she wanted me to see — something that could never be “Unseen”.
But now, as I lay masturbating myself, in the heat of my own apartment, as I recounted this horrific experience, a dark lust seemed to reignite and suddenly overwhelm me. My eyes returned to relive it, over and over.
“OUI, FAITES-LE ! OUI, VIOLEZ-LA POUR SATAN!” (Yes, do it! Yes, rape her for Satan!)
My fist had been pounding my cock as I saw her once again, dancing upon Satan’s phallus. An awful thought crossed my mind, that next time, it would be me, that would offer the sacrifice — with that unclean thought, just like the witches, I screamed out blasphemously.
“MERDE DIEU. SALUT SATAN!” (fuck God. Hail Satan!)
I reached my, much-belated, climax — shooting strings of hot semen over my face and chest. Finally, the night took me. Wet and sticky. Dreamless sleep. I slipped in tranquility.
xxxxx
My journey into the dark and secretive world of satanic rituals, researching evil, and sins of the flesh, resulted in my questioning the exact role of Satan and how, in this era of Parisian decadence, Satan had settled within myself so succinctly.
And then, Satan’s angel, Hyacinthe, returned.
As usual, she appeared so sweet and demure. It was as if nothing had happened. A lie. But of course, it had. I was immediately won over by her pleasing and dismissive sensual demeanor. She knew exactly what to say and do, to win me over, sexually. And likewise, she’d been pleased to see that I had returned, somewhat, to my usual inquisitive self.
Doubt seemed to be my savior. Was it that the nightmare had never happened? No, I knew that would be a lie (more to myself) but its effect seemed to be lessening or numbing quickly. Maybe I accepted it — as the new normal. My new normal — just as I had originally discovered my sexual attraction to Hyacinthe’s androgynous form.
Hyacinthe explained quietly that there was always a “prix à payer” (price to pay) for knowledge. Be it, carnal knowledge or occult wisdom. She said that I must understand that the taking of life during a ritual is only to be expected. Immortality had its beauty. It was their honor to serve the Dark Lord. After all, Satan is evil, and malevolent, and demands human suffering, abuse, torment, and sacrifice — in return for his dark powers.
She asked if it was all too much … if it was the end of my research. Had I seen enough? Was I convinced that this was no longer for me? It was just rhetorical.
As much as it had been me that had wanted to escape, now in retrospect, I knew I wasn’t done. Not yet. And I was far from it. I didn’t say it out loud, but I knew that it had made me feel so alive. Regretting my retreat … maybe? I felt an immediate yearning to return to the night of their diabolical ritual and to see the witches transform into nefarious beasts of the night. To have possibly joined with them. To have fornicated with them. To even become one of them … maybe?
Hyacinthe sensed my change of attitude.
She smiled mischievously at me. No. I could see the evil glint in her dark, pretty eyes. She dangled her Satanic charm before my eyes — the baphometic necklace she always wore — it stirred me deeply. She pressed herself against me, We kissed deeply. Yes, she tasted like honey. Her tongue felt as thick and long as her erect penis. Her fingers began to fondle me through the flimsy material of my pants.
We’d been drinking lots of cheap, Burgundy wine, and were soon in bed with each other. We lay in a sixty-nine position, fondling each other’s nuts and anuses, whilst sucking each other’s cocks eagerly — in the prelude to our own ritual sodomy. We changed position so that I sat on my knees between her own thighs as she lay on her back. She gripped both our cocks, rubbing them together and grunt in delight. Hyacinthe kept whispering evil thoughts in my ears as I mounted her, pressing my cock into her oily anus.
She’d asked me to wear a pair of fake demon horns upon my head as she play-acted demurely. She Incestuously called me her “papa démon” (demon daddy). It was a role reversal — as if it were me that was corrupting her (as if she was my innocent young daughter). “Non, papa démon, s’il te plaît, ne me fais pas de mal!” (No, demon daddy, please don’t hurt me!)
Yes, I must admit that I adored all of it, all her taboo role-playing games. The evil bitch, urged me to imagine that she was the “petite fille vierge” (little virgin girl) in the perverted chapel of the Ursuline Nuns — she begged me to fuck her to death for Satan — making me explode deep inside her dirty bowels with that disturbingly, unsavoury thought.
xxxxx
It had been several weeks of continuous ‘luxure’ (lust) and perverted love play between us.
Hyacinthe was even more incorrigible than before and never sated. We’d begun to indulge in the frequent drinking of each other’s urine. Not the watery stuff. No, she’d encouraged a diet that made our urine very dark and strong. The devil’s elixir, she’d called it. The unholy sacrament. It was an element that instantly reminded me of that profane and twisted ritual. For weeks, my cot lay spoilt in the stench of our stale piss. I had begun to love it — to need it, so that sex without perversion seemed insipid.
She’d acquired a ceremonial phallus, supposedly carved from the thigh bone, of a sacrificed child. It was a foul thing. At first, I wanted nothing to do with it. But Hyacinthe seemed to know me better than I knew myself. And in no time we were concocting our demonic rituals, firstly soaking it in our piss and semen, then using it as a ceremonial dildo, to penetrate each other’s anuses as we chanted blasphemously, professing our love of the dark demon, the Baphomet.
All the while, Hyacinthe had been talking about the fate of those young boys at the hands of Gilles de Rais — the evil knight that had sparked my curiosity about the occult — returned to my preview. Hyacinthe contemplated how they had been treated … abducted, and used so delightfully in the most profane of dark Satanic rites.
She masturbated me as she weaved her “tabou pervers” (perverted taboo) stories of their various demises. “Le diable est parmi nous” (the devil is among us). What horrible fate awaited these innocent young victims?
She’d suggested that some may have been imprisoned (possibly without any food or drink, besides their own piss and feces). Some were crucified and left to die, much like Christ. Some were bound and hung from chains, and ritually abused over a longer period — raped over and over. Some were forced to do it to each other, for the pleasure of their Satanic captures, that masturbated as they watched. While others may have met an end, much like the young girl in the chapel.
Like Satan’s ever-increasingly bizarre demands, Hyacinthe’s desires just got progressively darker and darker, eviler and eviler … It seemed to get her off watching me struggle with it all. She was, no doubt, truly a demon-whore, a sacrilegious cock-slut, and a “succube” (succubus) … inside the body of a divine angel.
xxxxx
We’d planned a trip across the English Channel, to the City of London, where we were to meet, once again, with the infamous, Sister Elisa. I had never been to England before. The land of the hope and glory. Hyacinthe described London as a “Cité du péché” (City of Sin) — such that, below its veneer of righteousness and political correctness, there was an evil underbelly that I was encouraged to experience.
She explained that the so-called “Seigneurs et Dames” (Lords and Ladies) of high society, whilst cultivating the civility of their airs and graces, secretly indulged in devil worship and sexual perversions, all of which, must be sampled. They were called Hell-Fire Clubs — secret societies where they performed the Black Mass regularly in worship of Satan — though some may have considered these rites as little more than drug-fueled, sexual perversity — Sister Elisa had assured Hyacinthe of their genuineness.
My anxiety returned but my dark lust sustained. Yes, it was going to be an interesting trip.
xxxxx
THE CHARIOT — CHAPTER THREE (2,577 WORDS)
Through my experiences, along this crooked path, I came to realize that Satan does not need to show himself to me, in human or animal form, to attest to his carnal presence. For him to prove himself, it’s enough that Satan chooses to reside in the mortal souls of those whom he tries to inflame and incites to commit unaccountable crimes.
As for myself, Satan seemed to hold us with his “tentations lubriques” (lustful temptations) — which he breathes into us — instead of living inside of us, as is the case, and which we’re often unaware of, he’ll submit to our invocations appearing to us and negotiating the benefits that he’ll grant in exchange for certain forfeits. Forfeits that felt that I have already signed away in my blood … even the mere desire for us to make a pact with him, must result in Satan seeking us out.
xxxxx
We took passage and arrived at the port of Dover, from Calais by boat, and then we took a train from Dover to Central London. I must admit that I was exhausted by the time we arrived in the city via Blackfriars Station, just over the River Thames. I was looking forward to recuperating at our modest accommodation — of course, Hyacinthe was furiously hungry to begin our evil hunt.
We’d arranged to meet Sister Elisa the next afternoon — so after a few drinks at a local pub, we returned to settle in for the evening.
Once in the privacy of our London abode, from the luggage she’d brought with her from Paris, Hyacinthe produced a familiar-looking bone chalice. Its shallow curved shape and carved incantations made it appear ‘un objet du mal’ (an object of evil). It was obvious that it was made from the half skull of a very young child. I remembered a similar chalice that Eliza had used in the demonic ritual of the Ursuline Nuns.
Hyacinthe smiled at me. She appeared more “comme un vampire assoiffé de sang” (like a blood-thirsty vampire). As if she could read my thoughts, she reminded me of that delicious young girl, that had been used in their evil ritual — the same young girl that had been fucked to death by Eliza — thoughts of her tortured body, dancing like a lifeless ragdoll, on that demon’s horse-like cock — stirred in my consciousness.
Hyacinthe implied that the chalice was all that remained of her. They’d eaten her, she added. It was as if, Elixa had gifted it to me. My cock immediately hardened at that wicked thought. Yes, the sight of my excitement, pleased Hyancithe. She said that it was a sign of my readiness to accept Satan into my darkening heart.
We immediately urinated and defecated into the chalice … Hyancithe held it aloft, claiming it to be our offering to Belphegor, “le Démon de la Merde” (the Demon of Waste) … then she rubbed the disgusting mixture over our naked bodies … soiling the crisp, white hotel bed sheets … as we frotted together, kissing with the filth in our mouths, in our hair, and smeared over our entire bodies.
xxxxx
Later, in the afterglow of our perverted sex, Hyacinthe explained to me about the notorious Hellfire Club.
It was outwardly an exclusive membership-based organization for high-society rakes, that had been first founded in London, in 1718 by Philip, Duke of Wharton, and several of society’s elites. By all accounts, rumors of the club’s activities seemed to precede themselves. Fiction or fact? Their premises were that of a repurposed abbey with a motto reading “Fay ce que voudras” (Do what thou wilt) carved over the abbey entrance. How Sister Elisa had become had member of this very secretive association was unclear but she held power to sway, and our entry as her special guests was already assured.
Hyacinthe confided that all the club members were devious, wicked, and shared a keen interest in all kinds of pagan sex and affected to practice but without the serious, deeply felt mumbo jumbo, like the goings-on of Aleister Crowley — who even borrowed their motto for his Abbey, in Sicily.
xxxxx
We met Sister Elisa at Covent Gardens. The London weather was overcast and miserable in the embers of the British summer and the late afternoon beneath the neo-classical canopy was quite pale. Of course, Sister Elisa and Hyacinthe seemed rather guarded in this very public place. We quickly moved to a more private location, away from the crowds.
The place was an old library. There was a faint bouquet of stale biscuits and the aroma of old parchment. Outside it had begun to rain — like the liquid velvet of things — that bleached out the excessive and brutal tones of the daylight — it was like a wet cloak of abandonment that fell like a veil of oblivion.
It was then that my eyes glimpsed a collection of ancient knowledge. The library was a depository of exquisite occult wisdom — I recognized some of the publications — titles like the First Book of the Occult, Codex Esoterica, Necronomicon, The Book of Forbidden Knowledge, and The Book of the Dead.
Once alone, Sister Elise and Hyacinthe kissed each other, much like they’d done on our first encounter at the old decrepit church. Sister Elise asked about the “don du calice spécial” (gift of the special chalice). Hyacinthe told her that we’d performed the ritual that she’d suggested in honor of the shit demon, Belphegor. Sister Elise nodded in instant approval. This time, she kissed my mouth — her long tongue snaked between my open lips — fucking my mouth just like Hyacinthe’s cock. Her hand rested on my lap and I felt the erection in my pants.
She whispered that “Le Diable était ravi de mes progrès” (Satan was delighted with my progress) — that dark wishes are granted to those who pay homage — that I would have my darkest desire granted at the next full moon ritual. I wasn’t sure which dark desire she was referring to … as I had acquired quite a few … then she reminded me of how I wanted to take a young girl, just as the Satanic High Priestess had done. But I hadn’t mentioned it to anyone not even Hyacinthe. How could she have known? Maybe it was just a guess? She didn’t explain any further.
Sister Elise began to rub her against my blossoming erection as she explained that plan. She said that we would meet one of the principals of this particular Hellfire Club in the next day or so in the lead-up to the full moon ritual. She mentioned that he was an interesting character, by the name of Sebastian. He was, by all accounts, a wealthy socialite and one of the principals of the Hellfire Club. And by principal, she meant, his role was one of a Magus.
Hyacinthe watched eagerly Sister Elise’s less-than-subtle seduction. They both were taking turns, kissing my mouth, tongue kissing me, taunting me, masturbating me through my pants, as they pressed themselves against me. Honestly, I needed very little prompting. It was obvious where this was going and in no time, the three of us were naked in the old library in a “ménage à trois” (threesome).
The Sister’s mouth engulfed both Hyacinthe’s cock and my own — feasting eagerly on our combined precum. Her fingers gripped me tightly as if to milk my very essence. One thing lead to another and soon my cock filled the Sister’s hot wet cunt, while Hyacinthe filled the Sister’s anus. The three of us fucked as if possessed. Sweat poured from our naked bodies as we groaned out loud, blaspheming, and thrusting upwards into her. And as we fucked, I could feel the sensation of Hyacinthe’s cock and my own, almost touching, only separated by the thin membrane of flesh between Sister Elise’s vaginal and anal walls.
xxxxx
It was just before the night of the full moon.
With umbrellas prepared, we had a short journey across to the abbey entrance. All of what Hyacinthe had explained about the history of the Hellfire Club played on my furtive imagination — so many vivid images — of perverted orgies, of cocks, asses, and cunts, young virgins crucified naked, impaled upon evil phallic idols, of chalices of urine and reddish light, of dark chants and sacrilegious prayers, the beating of the pagan drum, of goat horns and hermaphrodites, all so deliciously dedicated to Satan’s lust bathed in blood, urine, and semen.
We were met by a young man that I was introduced to as Sebastian. Hyacinthe had told me that he was from old money — his father did not approve of his supposedly “attitude de maniaque du sexe” (perverted playboy), so he arranged to have his father murdered — and he became the sole heir to his family’s fortune.
I must say, that up until this point, I had felt only a few same-sex attractions, preferring the sensual bodies of more feminine partners. But there was something very alluring about this thin, pony-tailed hair, youth. His androgyne. His smile. His smell. His demeanor. His sing-song voice. The touch of his fingers as they lingered in our strangely sexual handshake. “Je le voulais” (I wanted him). This incident had not gone unnoticed by Hyacinthe, who whispered carnal suggestions in my ear, that to lay with this youth promised to be a very perverted and exciting liaison.
xxxxx
And as Hyancithe and Sister Elise paired off and seemed to vanish.
Sebastian didn’t look surprised. As if it was orchestrated that way. He took my hand gently, as a lover, and led me aside. He kissed my lips gently. He tasted much like the sweetness of wine. His gestures were effeminate and I imagined him to be the more demure partner in bed. How wrong I would be.
He playfully asked about my research and what I had learned from Sister Elise’s dark church. His disarming nature, had me confess to him that it had been very much of a shock, that I had found it deeply distressing and disturbing — but at that same time incredibly arousing — and that the experience had spurred my interest in the sexual secrets of the occult. I told him that it had left me wanting to know much more.
It was an answer that seemed to greatly please him — his hand lightly stroked my hardening cock through the fabric of my trousers — and then pressed himself against me, so that our covered cocks rubbed directly against one another. I could feel the hardness of his cock. We kissed again but this time, our mouths were fully open, and our eager tongues plunged back and forth, as we frotted with more urgency.
He asked if I would join him “Baisons des enfants ensemble dans mon donjon pervers” (downstairs in his private suite). I quickly agreed and holding my hand, he led me down a steep set of spiral stairs, into the bowels of the dark abbey.
His private boudoir was made up of several rooms, all of which were overly warm and carpeted in exotic colors — vermilion, ash brown, crimson, fuchsia, and gold. Lit with warm iridescent light and perfumed candles, the floors were covered with cushions, pillows, and soft furnishing, and in the main chamber, three of the four walls were fully mirrored from floor to ceiling, creating the illusion of a much wider expanse, yet with an intimate appeal.
There was the erotic sound of ethereal music as I watched him undress. I quickly discovered that “C’était un putain de travesti excité” (he was a transvestite) … Beneath his dark suit, he wore thigh-high fishnets with a tiny lace bra that accentuated his tiny soft breast mounds and dark nipples. His body was devoid of any manly hair, much to my pleasing, a femboi of sacred androgyne. His cock was fully erect as he loosened the pigtail of black hair that cascaded over his shoulders, making him look even more feminine.
I followed his lead, removing my clothing until I was completely naked.
We knelt together, melting together, kissing and caressing each other. “Je voulais sa bite mouillée dans ma bouche affamée” (I wanted him) — He was anything but demure — and his stiff cock seemed to demand my attention. He told me that Hyacinthe had been confident of my illicit participation and that she too shared the secrets of his boudoir on many occasions. He laughed calling her a complete cock whore.
He kissed my mouth harder as we played with each other’s erections — taking turns in gripping our cocks together as we masturbated and frotted at the same time. “Putain Jésus” (Fuck Jesus). My cock was drooling with precum, as was his. Though I was eager to engage in sodomy, I sensed that there was no need to rush anything.
I asked him what it was that a Magus did in the Hellfire Club. He explained that it was more of a ceremonial role. What were the secrets of his boudoir? Was it simply a secret sanctuary for sexual exploration or something more sordid? I wasn’t sure. He laughed and I didn’t have to wait long.
Sebastian rang a little handheld bell and two identical young boys dressed in transparent harem pants appeared. They appeared to be brothers or twins of Asian descent and had pale white skin and long black hair that was tied in a single ponytail behind their heads. “Enfants esclaves sexuels” (sex slaves). They both wore tiny black nipple covers with delicate chains, matching earrings, and black velvet chokers with the mark of the Baphomet head. As they moved, they seemed to sway to the strange pagan music.
Each carried a golden goblet. As they approached, Sebastian said something that I didn’t understand, and they both began to urinate into their respective goblets. I watched, fascinated. He said that “L’urine est le sacrement des démons” (urine is our sacrament).
I just grinned evilly in approval. He said that the twins were favorites of Hyacinthe. He said that she’d mentioned the sexual abuse of a certain young girl in the Ursuline Church, however, she’d added that “violer des salopes de jeunes garçons” (young boys) could be far more satisfying.
We held our goblets and chinked them together as if celebrating the sensual strangeness, and then we both drank their contents. The taste of warm boy piss and other secretive narcotic ingredients crossed my tongue, and whatever their intended purpose immediately began to course through my twisted mind.
Once empty, I simply dropped the goblet, gasping as my host continued to masturbate me faster. “Putain, j’étais sur le point de jouir” (The intensity of the sensation was almost overwhelming). It felt as if he had me on that razor edge of orgasm.
I thought back to the reaction of the nuns in the dark chapel, to whatever, they had ritualistically consumed in the skull chalice — though there was no physical transformation, mine seemed to be internal … like the shattering of glass … where every single sliver seemed to vibrate to the same frequency.
I watched, in awe, as each of the preteen twins, now holding black-feathered fans, began their bizarre and alluring sex dance. They both shook, gyrated and thrust back and forth. Their eerie movements had become hypnotic. Transfixed, I couldn’t look away. I felt Sebastian’s mouth wrap around my throbbing cock and his finger probing my anus.
“Il est temps d’abandonner tout ce qui est juste — et de violer leurs connards” (It was time to let go) … Bring it on, I thought, I was ready!
xxxxx
THE END?
xxxxx
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