VII — CHARIOT 2

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: 03.11.2024

VII – Chariot 2

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.

SYNOPSIS OF THE CHARIOT

It is the late nineteen century in England. Durtal, our protagonist is a Frenchman, who has developed Ann unhealthy interest in the sexual side of the occult. Durtal has been taken by his androgynous colleague, Hyacinthe, and a perverted Ursuline nun, Sister Elisa, whose double life consists of being a High Priestess of Satan, to the Hell-Fire Club in London. It seems that the Club, from the outside, is seen as a fraternal group for the rich and famous. But, as Durtal seeks to discover, is also infamous as an entree into the more darker and evil side of the corruptive city. Rumor has it that this is such a place where they even perform the Black Mass regularly in worship of Satan — though some may consider the rites as little more than drug-fueled, sexual perversity. It is here, that Durtal first meets the enigmatic, Sebastian, an effeminate Magus. As Durtal delves deeper into the occult, he becomes acutely aware of the premature influences — that touch him in ways that he never imagined — and maybe leave no escape from their outcomes.

CHARACTERS OF THE CHARIOT 2 (IN ORDER OF APPEARANCE)

• Durtal — our protagonist, male (35)
• Hyacinthe Chantelouve — effeminate and androgynous acquaintance of Durtal (26)
• Sister Elisa aka Elixa — one of the Ursuline Nuns, turned High Priestess of Satan (32)
• Sebastian — effeminate Magus at the Hellfire Club (28)
• The ageless girl — the proxy for the God Pan
• Eric & Erica — twins of Durtal’s cousin, Patrick (11)

THE CHARIOT — CHAPTER FOUR (2,025 WORDS)

My name is Durtal. “Je suis un écrivain français,” (I am a French writer). So once again, please forgive my poor use of the English language. This is the second part of my journey into the realm of dark spiritualism accompanied by some unexpected bedfellows.

Hyacinthe Chantelouve was the first of many strange acquaintances.

She was an “elle était un démon sexuel pervers” (beautiful and graceful creature), with seemingly unquenchable sexual urges. It was Hyacinthe Chantelouve that first seduced me through acts of fellatio and anal coitus. In revealing her true sexual nature, “en tant que transsexuel” (as a transsexual), it was only the beginning. She was, by all accounts, the most sexually perverted and blasphemous of all demons — Irresistibly evil — her thirst for the most profane is second to none.

In turn, she had introduced me to a Ursuline nun. The nun went by the name of Sister Elisa but she was also secretly known as Elixa. She was a self-proclaimed “Grande Prêtresse de Satan,” (High Priestess of Satan). Her grace and poise hid many dark secrets — secrets that I yearned to understand.

I had witnessed first-hand, the occult power of this evil woman. It had been an experience that demonstrated that the worship of the Devil held many preternatural consequences. And I had witnessed things that could not be “unseen” on my unholy journey into Gehenna.

My deepening interest in studying occult power had brought, Hyacinthe and me, to the unsettling shores of England. London was a “ville du péché sexuel” (city of sin) where we had met up, once again, with an enigmatic, Sister Elise. The evil nun used her dark connections to bring us inside a secretive society called the Hell-Fire Club. It is here that I met the handsome Sebastian. An effeminate man that I fell in lust with. We immediately became “amants sodomistes” (intimates).

This is where we shall begin again.

xxxxx

My recollections of these days in the dullness of London’s seedy underbelly had brought into focus, that the occult was “malveillant et venimeux” (not something to be toyed with). This was not some “hocus pocus” sideshow trick. It wasn’t role play or a game of make-believe. This was where “pédophilie” (sexual abuse), rape, and even ritual murder were inextricably part of the course.

“Le sexe blasphématoire peut être très séduisant” (evil can be very seductive). I know now, that it is a very slippery slope. The deeper you go, the harder it is to escape. Once you have seen unnatural acts — like a nun transforming into a hideous sexual demon and raping a young innocent for the glory of Satan — it is hard to go backward from that point.

Time, it seemed, helped to lessen the shock but strangely the effect was that found myself drawn deeper and more attracted to the very thing that scared me most. Fear, it seems, creates its own kind of adrenaline rush. Being indifferent to the fate of those to be used, abused, and sacrificed — was this the loss of my humanity? Was I becoming like the evil ones?

In one of my earlier experiences, in an old and desecrated chapel, I had seen a young girl savagely raped, literally torn apart, and murdered by sometime that was no longer human. “Un démon sexuellement débauché” (a sexual devil). She’d been ritually fucked to death by this creature of the night — a sacrifice to Satan — right before my eyes. I should have been revolted. I should have been appalled … but I wasn’t. In my studies, I learned that the term “sacrifier” (sacrifice) comes from the Latin sacrificium, which translates as “to make holy”. Therefore, was the act of human sacrifice, one in which a human victim is made holy? … however, to me, it had seemed completely unholy in its execution.

My initial shock at this event had surprisingly turned into a desire to relive this very moment, over and over. I was initially ashamed of this thought. Ashamed of my illicit hunger. That, all I could do was masturbate furiously, thinking about what it was that I had seen as I watched the Devil’s cock impaling the young virgin upon its girth, thrusting upwards, ripping her apart, in its wretched need for sexual gratification.

My thoughts had returned to my research into the monster, Gilles de Rais. I had unearthed some undocumented facts … shocking fact … that asked the question of “combien d’enfants a-t-il éventré après les avoir déflorés?” (how many young ones had he disemboweled after deflowering them?) He, himself did not know. There had been so many raped, consummated, and murdered …

There were countless stories I had unearthed … one of the unfortunate young children that were brought into his bed chamber. He had been hung on a hook fixed into the wall. Just at the moment when the child was about to suffocate, Gilles ordered him to be taken down and the rope untied.

He then gently took the child on his knees, revived him, caressed him, rocked him, and dried his tears. Rais pointed to the accomplices, saying that these men were bad, but not to be afraid, as he would save your life and take him back to his mother. While the little one, wild with joy, kissed him, and at that moment loved him, Gilles makes a deep incision in the back of the child’s neck, rendering him helpless, in preparation for his sodomistic Black Mass.

xxxxx

It was at the “Club du feu de l’enfer” (Hell-Fire Club) that I first met Sebastian. And Sebastian and I had become fast friends — and perverts in lust.

I had been immediately attracted to this young and effeminate man. Maybe it was his sexual magick that draw me to him so eagerly? He had tasted so delicious when we first kissed. His mouth was warm and inviting. Our tongues had danced together, back and forth, and I was truly lost in this dark passion. Our hard cocks pressed urgently against one another. We grunted and groaned into each other’s mouths — speaking without words — and urging each other for more.

In the bowels of the Hell-Fire Club, he’d instigated a pedophilic orgy with the assistance of two underaged twin boys. It was there that, “consommation d’urine et pédérastie” (urine drinking and pederasty), had become my newest of twin desires. There had been strongly ritualistic aspects to his seduction. The omnipresence of both sex and the Devil oozed from the very walls of his “boudoir sombre du péché” (dark boudoir).

The two raunchy sodomites had been dressed in translucent harem pants. Sebastian had made them dance and tease us. My cock had almost spurted with precum as I watched them perform hypnotically before us. It wasn’t long before their lap dances turned into full anal penetration, as I could no longer control my sodomistic urges.

Unbeknownst to me, his boudoir had two-way mirrors. These had provided front-row seats for Hyacinthe and Sister Elise, to watch my fall from grace, as I eagerly sodomized one of the young twins, as Sebastian sodomized the other — it had been part of their plan for me, from the beginning — no longer a spectator but a participant.

Hyacinthe had told me, afterward, that it had been quite a show. They’d mutually masturbated one another while they watched from behind the secretive mirror. Sister Elise was still very much of an enigma to me. From what I had seen, I knew she was a potent priestess, that possessed preternatural powers. Hyacinthe confirmed the same. She told me of a story of how they met.

It had been a gathering of the who’s-who of France occult elite, in a grand monastery, that had been dedicated for centuries to the glory of the Abrahamic god. It had been converted, for a while, into a prison, before falling into the hands of the “Kabbaliste pervers” (perverted Kabbalists), an occult order, presided over by a wealthy Italian noble, called Stanislas de Guaita.

Guaita, at the time, had been a central figure in the Parisian occult scene. He was well known both for his knowledge as well as his extensive collection of occult books. Guaita was responsible for his own written contributions to the occult that included titles such as “Le Serpent de la Genèse” (The Serpent of Genesis) and “Le temple de Satan” (The Temple Of Satan) and “La Clé de la Magie Noire” (The Key of Black Magic) – the latter of which includes an original rendering by Guaita that later was used by Anton LaVey as the “Sigil of Baphomet”.

Guaita also claimed to have had sexual congress with Jesus Christ himself. The bombastic wizard that had dismissed the Order of the Ursuline Nuns, as nothing but a pathetic bunch of lesbian spoofs with nothing to contribute to the occult society. When he refused to apologize for his ignorance, Sister Elise challenged him. It would be settled with a duel. Guaita was an accomplished swordsman and dualist (with pistols). He hadn’t counted on it becoming a dual of black magick.

Hyacinthe had been there as a guest of Guaita. As she described Sister Elisa’s transformation, I remembered all too well, how she’d become a demonic creature capable of terrible things. Guaita didn’t stand a chance. His naked body was literally torn in two. Once impaled upon her monster phallus, its cock-head erupted upwards from his screaming throat. Nobody in the occult order, ever said anything, against the Order of the Ursuline Nuns again. The official cause of death was a drug overdose, but Hyacinthe knew the truth.

xxxxx

London continued to accelerate my occult knowledge. If I ever dared to call these experiences, “learned”. The British weather was dull, overcast, and grey. The constant haze of rain and drizzle were somewhat melancholic. But nothing seemed to dampen Hyacinthe’s enthusiasm for the profane. Quite the opposite. She seems quite a home in the gloomy and dark place. I could imagine that it would have been “l’enfer infernal sur terre” (hell on earth) for those who fell victim to the excesses of the members of the Hell-Fire Club.

She had organized for the both of us to travel to a secret destination in the countryside, just North of London. She had given me no particulars about the location, or the nature of our visit. She simply said that this would be something very special. As usual, her commentary made me very nervous. Surprise was one of her greatest assets. She seems to have a natural affinity for making me shiver with anticipation.

As we journeyed to this secret location, she said how the wiliest thing the Devil can do is to get people to deny his existence. But how could one believe in God, if one does not accept the Devil — it was like day and night — maybe it wasn’t so much about believing in God, but believing in the Devil, without the belief that God could exist. Was that even possible? A godless world dedicated to demonic power and nothing else. What was the price to be paid for all this sin?

I remembered a short story that I had first published in Lippincott’s Monthly Magazine by a writer called Oscar Wilde. The story was titled “La photo de Dorian Gray” (The Picture Of Dorian Grey). It centered around a young man who had a portrait of himself painted. The portrait magically took on Dorian’s sins, aging, and sickness. Dorian spent decades living a hedonistic lifestyle across Asia, fucking everything he could, in the most wretched of brothels and opium dens. It seemed that his sins had no impact upon him.

Did I see this as a curse or a blessing? Was Hyacinthe akin to Dorian? Certainly, I was no Dorian Gray. I had no painting to absorb my sins. But strangely enough, up until this point, there have been no obvious consequences other than the feeling of my loss of humanity. Maybe there was a black magick at work — that had been placed upon me by Hyacinthe — but if they had, she never spoke it.

Why these thoughts, now? I asked myself, unsure of what lay around the corner, in the sinful encounters yet to come.

xxxxx

THE CHARIOT — CHAPTER FIVE (3,383 WORDS)

I believed that this “special event” had come about because Sister Elise had observed my weaknesses. She’d told Hyacinthe that I needed “une leçon” (a lesson). It had been arranged for her to meet with me alone. Without my Hyacinthe — my protector — she had chosen the library, a place where we had previously met and had indulged in a “Ménage à trois” (threesome).

Her face was pulchritudinous. A sensually attractive woman, even whilst covered from head to toe. But I knew from experience that beneath her shapeless gown, Sister Elise’s womanly body had been rather boyish, with small breasts and bony hips — just the kind that I had grown to adore.

She said that I needed a moment of silent prayer. That the path that lay in front of me was one that I would need to be strong and single-minded about. No more doubts. All my calamitous thoughts of right and wrong, good and evil, needed to be silenced … once and for all … yes, she has said, it was about choice. She was firm. Did I want a life where I would marry a simple French woman, settle down, have children, and live an ordinary life?

… Or, was my path to be spectacular?

Sister Elise lit several fragrant candles and burned incense upon a small altar with four horns, one at each quarter. She’d said something about paying homage to an ancient demon, called Baal, whose name simply meant “Lord”.

She asked me to undress and to kneel upon an old gothic “prie-dieu” (kneeler). I did as she asked. Strangely I found the smoky fumes calming. She poured the content of a small sachet into a chalice and momentarily lifted the front of her gown. I couldn’t quite see what she was doing, but I could smell the distinct aroma of urea. She brought the chalice to me and told me to drink it.

I did as she instructed.

It wasn’t unpleasant, but immediately I found the content of her elixir arousing. Very arousing. My cock immediately become rampant, dripping wet with precum at its tip. The urge to touch myself was overwhelming.

She placed a large old manuscript on the reading table in front of me. It was an eighteenth-century book that comprised many demonic illustrations, as well as magic and cabbalistic signs. The Compendium rarissimum totius Artis Magicae sistematisatae per celeberrimos Artis hujus Magistros, roughly translates to “A rare summary of the entire Magical Art by the most famous Masters of this Art”.

She had opened the book, that was adorned with many dark oddities and other sexualized demonic creatures. She’d turned to a particular image of a feminine horned demon with a serpent-like clitoris — was there a long green snake emerging from its vagina, or was it part of its genitalia?

She asked me to contemplate, what she called, “Le Rituel de Baal” (The Ritual of Baal). Sister Elise began to fondle my wet-tipped cock, rhythmically stroking my erection. Her words seemed to echo and reverb ate in my mind … “Le Rituel de Baal” . Her fingers moved faster. Whatever she’d give me to drink, left a strong after-taste, and my head was beginning to react … “Le rituel de Baal” I felt a disembodied finger penetrate my itchy anus. It was like a sleepy hallucinogenic …”Le rituel de Baal” … I felt like I was floating. So aroused. Almost orgasmic. My vision began to tunnel. My breathing had become so labored … “Le rituel de Baal” …

The book seemed to disappear into the cloud of smoky incense. The library dissolved. I was no longer on the prie-dieu, but kneeling before Sister Elise. Still, I felt fingers penetrating my anus, while other firm fingers gripped my cock, rubbing me towards orgasm … I heard strange voices of worship to an ancient deity … a language I didn’t understand … “Le rituel de Baal” had truly begun.

I looked up and watched in awe as Sister Elise removed her wimple. Upon her crown appeared large twisted horns. She opened her black nun’s gown … her genitalia appeared like the demon in the compendium … her cunt was open and oily, and her deformed clitoris danced like a snake phallus being charmed by the strange prayers. Ugly, and vile — yet, shockingly, it appeared to me to be absolutely beautiful … I began to touch it, rub it, kiss it, lick it, suck it … yes … said the strange encouraging voices … touch it, rub it, kiss it, lick it, suck it … worship the genitals of the Lord …

Naked bodies, male, female, transgendered, danced and fornicated around me, encouraging me as their stimulation continued … like the Order of the Ursuline Nuns, as they transformed from holiness to unholiness … from pious to perverted … from righteous to the spawn of the demon “Baal” … I too was like them … changed into something less than human, more than just a man …

They chanted as they brought forth young women. It felt like so familiar. Like a scene from a movie that I had watched over and over — knowing exactly what was supposed to happen — maybe hoping the scene would change — but knowing that it wouldn’t.

The young girl struggled. She looked upon me in abject terror — I was a monster to her — I was an evil demon and she was in fear for her life. This all seemed to have little meaning until, like a strange foreign language heard for the first time, it all began to morph — could no hear words, then sentences, then the meaning was lucid. She was to be offered … and I was to do the offering.

I was on the edge. Like a runaway train. I couldn’t stop myself. Bestial urges rushed through me — instinctual and unrepressed … as if my blood was surging through my monstrous anatomy … everything seemed to focus on my evil bidding. At the same time, it seemed also completely orgasmic. I gripped her delicate throat and lifted her naked body effortlessly. So slight, flimsy, and weak. My strength was many times my human capacity … my cock too … larger, thicker, and far more demanding than ever before.

The desire to slam her body down upon my cock — to impale her upon myself — seemed to scream at me … as if it was all that mattered. I couldn’t help myself. Her vagina enveloped my cock like a sheath as I penetrated her. Her face seemed to change — the young girl was gone — her face was that of Sister Elisa, as she began to ride me, as if she were making me her offering and not the other way around … “Le rituel de Baal” … calamity … then, suddenly, my orgasm hit me like a punch in the face. I exploded. My slimy semen spurted inside the nun’s body at the relentless bidding of the demonic prayers of her entourage — Everything went black.

xxxxx

It was almost dark by the time we reached this place in the countryside. Though our enclosed carriage gave us privacy, I opened the “petits rideaux” (little curtains), and through the open window watched, as dull brick buildings, cobbled streets, and the coal-smog sky gave way to silhouetted leafless trees and a starry dome above. Even the smell of the city, which I hadn’t really noticed before, changed to nature’s perfume. I noticed the full moon high above us in the evening sky — the “sacrifice pervers de pleine lune” (full moon ritual) came immediately to my mind. I became excited about what lay ahead for my voyeuristic pleasure.

We had both been dressed, each in a simple monk-like black robe, tied around the waist with a thin rope. We were naked beneath with open sandals upon our feet. Hyacinthe’s hand had slipped beneath my gown and stroked my cock as the carriage bumped along its journey. My memory of her was that she was always sexually … addicted to it, I believe.

Eventually, we reached our secret destination. The carriage driver turned in a wide circle and we came to a halt. The place seemed off the beaten track with only scattered dim lights to illuminate our whereabouts. We were not alone. Before us were about a dozen other posh-looking carriages and with their coachmen waiting.

Assisted by our driver, we stood on the wide gravel driveway. In front of us, the structure was that of a massive indoor arboretum. I had never seen anything like it. The domed roof structure must have been five or more stories high and in the moonlight, its elaborate wrought iron architecture gave it a crystalline appearance — like a shining piece of exquisite jewelry.

Hyacinthe and I walked the short distance to its entry. In our simple robes with sandals, it was cold outside but once we stepped beyond the threshold into the arboretum itself, the heat and moisture were evident. We removed our sandals and felt the warm dampness of the grass beneath our bare feet.

Hyacinthe had explained that it was the property of Sebastian. And that the Hell-Fire Club met here for initiations. She went on to inform me that it had been on Sebastian’s suggestion that I be initiated — they called it my “renaissance” (rebirth) … a return to the primal forest, like the “Jardin d’Eden” (Garden of Eden) — a sanctuary dedicated to reliving “la chute” (the fall) and the act of original sin … where the serpent corrupted Adam and Eve and showed them the truth and offered them the power of occult knowledge. It all made sense.

Yes, it had my interest. The power of occult knowledge. But what was involved in this so-called initiation? My mind reeled with all the evil and twisted possibilities that I had already witnessed … but from the sidelines … this, Hyacinthe described, would be far more participative. Did I want to back out? Would it be a slap in the face to my new acquaintance, Sebastian? Would I be insulting the Hell-Fire Club to rebuff this offer of my “initiation sexuelle perverse” (my initiation)?

Many thoughts crossed my mind as Hyacinthe and I followed the small trail of floor lights, through the rich plant life of the dark arboretum. The smell of the raw soil, earthy substances, exotic plants, and tropical trees — filled my senses. It was almost an overload, as I tried to imagine what was going to happen to me.

As we walked towards the central atrium of the crucifix-shaped structure, Hyacinthe explained that this was also the “Jardin de Pan” (Garden of Pan). She said that the initiation would be my rebirth, my satanic baptism … an ancient rite performed only for a select few.

Yes, yes … I hastened … but what exactly was to happen?

She said that there would be a font. A bathing font. It would be filled with the amniotic fluids from the wombs of two dozen mothers — their babies aborted so that the fluids could be collected especially for my renaissance ritual.

It sounded insane and shocked me to the core. It would be a sign of my acceptance by their Hell-Fire Club coven. She said that I should welcome the blessing from the God of Mischief, Pan, and that I should not take such a ritual lightly, as it was to be a great honor!

Before I knew it, we had arrived. In the central atrium, there was a pagoda-like structure that allowed the moonlight to flood in and fill the space with its incandescence.

More than two dozen others were standing in the pagoda, all dressed similarly to Hyacinthe and I, in a simple black robe that was open to the front, and held in position with a simple rope belt. With their hoods removed, I recognized Sebastian and Sister Elise. The twin boys were also among the crowd.

Sebastian nodded in acknowledgment of our arrival and immediately held his hands in the air. I felt aroused but scared. My cock throbbed with secret delight as Hyacinthe had whispered that there would be sex, later. Much sex. Violent and perverted sex.

Sister Elise stood at Sebastian’s side. On the other was a “préadolescente” (ageless girl) that I hadn’t met before. She could have been fifty or fifteen, I just couldn’t tell. Her top was open and I could see her pronounced breasts looked full — as if laden with mother’s milk.

At the center of the pagoda, directly under the light of the moon, I recognized the ornate font that Hyacinthe had described it stood upon serpentine legs. Its polished metallic finish was highly reflective in the glimmering moonlight. Filled to the brim … I must admit, my curiosity was getting the better of me.

Everyone began to undress except the ageless girl, who sat upon a tree stump, produced a simple wooden flute, and began to play it.

At first, I found the notes to be unmelodious, rather sharp, and absonant. Its jarring sound grated against my ears, but strangely it made my body begin to tingle all over like the sensation of efflorescence. I even began to sway to the sound, as if my body was possessed by its melodic dark magick.

I wasn’t the only one affected in this bizarre way. Everyone began to dance to the sound of Pan’s flute. My body wasn’t my own. Naked, we all rocked back and forth, skipping light-footed around the sacred font, awaiting to be blessed by the God of Mischief. “Ma bite était dure comme de l’acier” (my cock was steel-hard). As the strange dance continued, without conscious thought, I began to drip with seminal fluids like never before. Of course, I was not alone.

Hyacinthe and Sebastian were both fully erect, groaning as they flaunted themselves, rubbing their dripping cocks furiously to the same rhythm of Pan’s flute music. I could see the shimmer of Sister Elise’s oily cunt juices as they flowed down the inside of her legs. She, like other women, eagerly fingered their bald cunts and anuses as they too erratically danced. Both the young twins followed in the carnality … Pan, the God of Mischief, had us all under her sexual spell. Our nudity seemed like dark shadows in the moonlight, as our scared dance continued.

I found myself unable to stop touching myself, despite my misgivings about the impending initiation ritual. I found myself stepping into the overflowing font, as if my body knew what to do, even though I had no conscious instructions.

The oily fluids within were warm as I immersed myself. Sitting and then lying down until I was completely immersed. And between the screeching notes of Pan’s perverted flute, I could hear the “cris de bébés se faisant baiser” (screams of the unborn), as they were aborted and the fluids drained from their mother’s wombs.

I wanted to cover my ears but my arousal seemed only to intensify.

My breathing was erratic as I gasped for air … around me, I could see the group wildly thrusting about, contorted in their masturbation dance, twisting and turning madly. My head seemed to be filled with a dark lust. An animal lust. The ageless girl’s music continued to play, even though the wooden flute was no longer against her lips, she stood up on the edge of the font and removed her robe.

I stared in complete awe. Her thighs and calves were covered in dense fur. Her legs appeared like the rear legs of a goat with cloven hooves instead of feet. “Une bête maléfique de l’enfer, le Dieu du Sexe Pervers” (She was Pan. She was the God of Mischief).

xxxxx

Had my initiation had changed me? It had changed everything. As Sister Elise had said to me, “Les observateurs sont rapidement devenus des participants” (observers soon became participants). It had been absolutely true.

If there had been one thing that my dark journey through purgatory had shown me, it would be that my hands were dirty — filthy dirty. There cannot be enlightenment without submission; and by submission, I was no longer that naive and inquisitive philosophile searching the unknown — I was as evil as they were. My thirst for preternatural had brought me to this dark and wondrous place.

Looking back, I saw many opportunities for me to have stepped back but I didn’t. And that was the point. Choice. We choose our outcomes. And in choosing the path — It was my fate to become a monster.

Hyacinthe and I had spent the entire night under the moonlight at the massive indoor arboretum. Sebastian’s arboretum. The moon had illuminated our extreme debauchery. A twilight world where evil was strongest. There was no denying its hold on me.

Traveling back together to London in our covered carriage, we held each other with heavy eyes. I was exhausted. Leaned against one another in a wordless silence. Both of us were worn out from the proceedings of this evil and dark proceedings. Our bodies felt almost bruised as if from a battle. Our sensuality completely drained. Our minds were now languid. Our souls are even darker.

As I moved restlessly, I could still feel the sensations — the wetness of amniotic fluid around me — as the ritual ensued. My rebirth. “Mon baptême impie,” (My unholy baptism). My blessing from the God of Mischief, Pan. The sacred fluids that engulfed me in this total immersion. I sunk downwards. Sinking into the evil font and allowing the birth liquids to cover me.

It was to be a form of death, of burial, and then, of resurrection.

Maybe it had been the font itself or the rhythmic sound of Pan’s music, that seemed to vibrate right through me — I swear it sounded like screaming — as if I could hear the death, not of myself, but of the unborn. As I broke the surface the screaming disappeared … only old Pan’s unholy music filled my ears.

My hair was plastered to my head, and I was helped out of the font, still dripping with amniotic fluid. I felt unsteady as Hyacinthe and Sebastian both assisted me to stand. I was brought forward before the strange ageless girl. She looked at me with wanton eyes. Animalistic eyes. The others still danced carefree and masturbated around us, in an almost trance-like state to sound ethereal sounds of Pan’s eerie music.

The ageless girl smiled carnally at me — as she removed her robe — revealing the true beauty of her slender torso and milk-laden breasts dripping from each of her erect nipples. My eyes traveled down her narrow waistline and bony hips to her fur-coated thighs as she stood upright upon cloven hooves. “Mon démon de la bite,” (A demon). How did such a primal oddity exist? As old as time itself.

Sebastian and Hyacinthe pressed me by my shoulders so that I fell to my knees … before the demon, Pan.

She spoke to me a language I was unfamiliar with. However, in my mind, the image of what she expected, formed. I lent forward and gripped her erect cock in both hands. Her demonic cock felt thick and throbbed between my eager fingers. Yes, I thought, she was lust incarnate. The blessing would be bestowed. I was to take her unholy sex organ between my lips and then up my anus — to be sodomized as one of her own.

My mouth quickly engulfed Pan’s thick phallus, as my fingers glided up and down its slimy wet length. I heard Pan groan. It was a joyous sound, yet shook me with its carnality. Raw and unclean. The orgy had begun. Only Sebastian remained, kneeling behind me, still stroking my cock, as I sucked as much of Pan’s cock as I could. I felt Sebastian’s fingers pressed into my oily asshole. One finger became two. Two became three. “Mon cul était prêt,” (readying my ass-cunt).

He whispered in my ear, that it was time for Pan’s special blessing. My cock was drooling with precum. I turned around, still on my knees, clutching Sebastian for strength. We kissed each other, deeply. Our cocks pressed against one another, frotting, as Pan’s cock was rubbed directly against my perineum. Pan stroked her cock back and forth between my legs as if I rode upon a witch’s broomstick. It felt long … thick … I wasn’t sure if I could take it.

“Praise be to Pan! Praise be to Pan!” whispered Sebastian, as I felt the head of her thick shecock invading my bowels.

xxxxx

THE CHARIOT — CHAPTER SIX (2,648 WORDS)

Hyacinthe and I traveled back to Paris.

I think I must have slept for a week. Well, that is how it had felt. Our Hell-Fire adventure concluded. We’d left Sister Elise with Sebastian and the other members of this clandestine organization — that we had both been accepted into. With my dark initiation over … there was a sense that I had dropped deeper into the cesspool of malfeasance … sink or sink … I was tainted forever.

Alone in my Paris apartment, I no longer bothered to dress myself. The unmade bed. The drawn curtains. A scattering of damp clothing across the floor. A glass of half-filled Burgundy and the remnants of my last meal still there … I had no energy for domestic duties. I lounged completely naked by the heat of the fireplace, watching the red and orange flames, like the fires of hell, rise and fall.

The cracking sound and smell of burning things reminded me of Pan’s breath and her incessant groaning as she gripped me tightly and seeded me. The sensation of the devil’s sperm filling up my filthy guts. My orgasm had bought wave after wave of its twisted euphoric pleasures. I could still feel the sensation of evil seed flowing from my open bowels, sliding down the inside of my thighs, as I panted to conquer my breathlessness.

I slipped into a dream of that strange place — to be back in that moonlit arboretum — familiar yet not. I was there in the twilight again. In total lack of color, everything appeared as shades of silvery grey, yet footprints in the soil seemed to glow reddish against the grey undergrowth. The footprints weren’t human but that of a hoofed creature. Was it the miscreant Pan? My eyes followed the line of red prints like a trail — another puzzle to be solved, maybe? I must follow them, I thought.

It was then that I found myself standing next to Hyacinthe. We were both naked. Excited. Our cocks were erect. We stroked ourselves as we ventured forward in search of Pan. She seized my hand and felt her palms clammy with cold sweat. Her presence seemed to trigger intimacy yet unfamiliarity. My dreamscape drew me back to the urge to follow a trail of glowing prints … as if it was our task … our quest … our only desire.

xxxxx

It wasn’t too long after my return to Paris that I received a letter from the estate of my cousin, Patrick. Patrick was my only family. Estranged, I hadn’t heard from him for almost a decade. Now it seemed my windowed cousin, had also passed, leaving his “enfants jumeaux identiques, Eric et Erica, sans ressources” (identical twin children, Eric and Erica, destitute). Of course, I knew of their existence but hadn’t heard word of their lives since birth, some eleven or so years prior.

Being the only remaining relative, and next of kin, I had been named in his last will and testament as their legal guardian. Of course, I had no use for children in my unholy house. How could I entertain the thought of their innocence among my daily deviancies? I would be vulnerable. The opportunity for being exposed as a “pédé, sataniste et pervers” (faggot, a Satanist, and a pervert), was obvious.

What could I do? The letter suggested that they be taken in immediately as my cousin’s affairs were left in disarray. This was an unfair request that I knew I must refuse. They were nothing to me. I had no connection with Patrick for years and now I was supposed to pick up the pieces? No. It wasn’t going to happen.

Immediately, my idea was that I could foster them out, or send them to boarding school. Yes. That sounded like a plan. Far away as possible. My financial resources gave me, at least, some choices, limited maybe but still choices. Their imminent arrival meant that I needed to smarten up my act — at least to disguise my obvious “délinquance sexuelle” (sexual delinquency). I had a maid service clean up the Paris apartment, while I gave a warning to my dearest Hyacinthe about the change in my situation — it would be best that she didn’t appear until I had solved my issue.

Eric and Erica arrived the next day. Without pomp or ceremony. Quite a striking pair. The family resemblance was unnervingly uncanny. They could easily have been mistaken for my own. Only eleven years old, they reminded me strongly of my cousin’s facial features — soft but handsome. The twins were small for their age, slender and slight in their build — and were truly identical. Both having long hair, gave them both “une putain d’apparence androgyne excitée” (an androgynous appearance).

I was told by the attendant, that they had little more than the clothing on their backs — and that they had been home-schooled by my departed cousin. With no more than that said, the attendant retreated, leaving me and the twins in the apartment lobby.

So, I welcomed them in, not quite knowing what I was going to do. They were both demure and appeared very grateful for the small mercies that I could afford them. Dare I say, that I was somewhat smitten by their delicious young bodies … “Immédiatement, je ne pouvais penser qu’à la pédastère” — so nubile, so fair — thoughts of Sebastian’s twins did stir my loins. But of course, my very limited nurturing nature remained intact despite these strange initial cravings.

My apartment afforded them a shared room with a large bed. I had arranged for some clean clothing, food, and some books and games for their amazement. By my estimations, I was going to take at least a month to seek this out. I would need to hide my sexual compulsions at bay and pretend to be the normal person I was before meeting my beloved and perverted Hyacinthe.

They were both very respectful and initially called me “Oncle Durtal” (Uncle Durtal). They asked if I didn’t mind if they called me “Papa” (Daddy) as it seemed less formal. They both seemed to be melancholic from the passing of their father, my cousin. They even clung to me. I said it was okay to call me “Papa” … I was certainly no father and had poor instincts about what to do next … I would try to tolerate them … while I tried to find a suitable foster home or boarding school for them both.

The first day passed uneventfully. They both seemed settled. And I found myself planning on how I would be able to spend time away with Hyacinthe, as “J’avais besoin de sa grosse bite perverse pour pisser dans ma bouche et mon anus” (I needed her cock in my mouth and anus).

I was so horny again. “La lune m’a fait me sentir comme un démon pervers ayant besoin d’une dose” … It was a moonlight night and I had found it difficult to sleep. The moon always seemed to affect me since my initiation. The Lunar cycle seemed to impact my libido … making me hot and horny … I would usually satisfy these wicked urges with Hyacinthe … but alas that was not possible.

I had been awakened by unusual muffled sounds, that seemed to come from down the hall in the direction of the children’s room. It that had made me curious and soon I found myself in my long nightgown patrolling the corridor outside the bedroom that I had assigned for the twins.

The ajar door allowed me to peek into their room, expecting to find two sleeping children. Maybe one of them was experiencing some troubled nightmare, not uncommon for young ones that have lost their only parent, I thought to myself.

“À ma putain de grande surprise” (To my surprise) … the curtains had been fully drawn back. In the moonlight, I could see their naked, nubile bodies. The boy, Eric, was on top of his sister, Erica. His cock buried in her vagina as they both fucked before my eyes. I was stunned but stood watching as the hollow of his buttocks, rose and fell, thrusting hard against her wide spread thighs. “Je voulais lui sauter sur le dos et mettre ma bite en l’air, c’est de la merde” — Their muffled moans told me of their obvious enjoyment of this incestuous act.

Shamefully, my cock immediately hardened as I looked on. Without thinking, I found myself masturbating, watching the incestuous pair fuck like two little animals in heat. As Eric seemed to approach his orgasm, I too seemed to be close to mine, as I rubbed myself through the loose fabric of my nightshirt … cumming almost at the same time as they let out a less than quiet moan. “Putain ! Ma bite a giclé partout sur moi” … With semen soaking through my nightshirt, I quietly retreated to my room, intrigued and perversely excited by their moonlit performance.

xxxxx

The next day, it seemed as if nothing had happened. I wasn’t sure how I felt about their notarial activities but I pretended as if I was blissfully unaware. They kissed my cheek, and said good morning “Papa”. We even hypocritically said the Lord’s Prayer, before consuming our breakfast of tartine, slices of baguette with butter and jam, “viennoiseries” (pastries), croissants, and my favorite, “pain au chocolat” (chocolate bread).

They were hungry. “Comme des mangeurs de merde voraces” (Almost ravenous). Dressed in short white shifts, both of them appeared to be the personification of sweetness and innocence — it was hard to imagine young effeminate, Eric, balls-deep, in his twin sister … stretching out Erica’s tiny, but hungry, cunt-hole. I was relieved that there seemed to be nothing in their actions that indicated that I had seen them together. I pretended to not know their incestuous sex but I could no longer look at them in the same way. It seemed their true sexual nature affected me.

I asked them both about my cousin, Patrick, and their life as a family. At first, they both seemed guarded and reluctant to give details, only that I could feel their sadness — they both must have loved their father dearly — and I wondered if he had had any idea of their secret pervertedness and the extent of their incestuous sexual relations. “Petites salopes incestueuses” … Eric said that their father was very close to them. Erica said that they were inseparable. Maybe not exactly her choice of words, but that’s how I understood it.

Eric had asked if I was to truly be their new “Papa”. It was a delicate moment. I wasn’t sure how to say that I intended to send them away as soon as possible. But I didn’t. I couldn’t. Was it something to do with their incestuous nature that had captivated my satanic desires … as if I imagined for a moment, the pervertedness that I had enjoyed with Sebastian’s twins as they had joined in, “Se baiser pour la gloire de Satan” (worshiping the devil), dancing, masturbating, and performing so many outrageous sexual acts for our entertainment.

“Puis-je baiser les enfants de mon cousin” (Could my own kin do the same)?

xxxxx

The evening came. It was a warm night and bathing time. Though I’d suggested to them to use my meager bathroom facilities separately, they insisted that it would be fine to bathe together. I wondered what naughtiness they would get up to, I found myself hovering just outside the doorway peeping in on them. Through the crack in the door, I saw that neither of them was actually in the bath water at all but both were naked on the furry bathmat.

Erica was sitting down and leaning back, supporting herself on her elbows, while her brother standing over her. I like the night before, I had an excellent view of his gorgeous cock as it stood fully erect with its foreskin drawn back over its purple-red crown. So suckable, I imagined. “L’inceste est beau” … I could see young Erica’s little cone-shaped breasts. Her tiny fingers were busy between her open legs, fingering her wet little bald slit, as she leaned forward taking her brother’s cock into her willing mouth and sucking him as he held her wet hair.

Momentarily, I noticed Eric pull back as he began to “uriner sur son visage” (urinate over her face). From where I stood, “l’odeur de la pisse était délicieuse” … I could even smell his heady piss as she opened her smiling mouth and gulped at the dark amber fluids. It was so perverted to watch two eleven-year-olds perform such obscenities. They changed positions. Now it was Eric’s turn. He has masturbating his deliciously hard cock furiously. Erica stood over him, holding her tiny labia open, as she also pissed into his mouth, over his face and hair. Their piss soaking the furry bathmat beneath them.

“J’étais tellement excité par le niveau de perversité de mes jouets sexuels” (I was so turned on). The filthy little fuckers had me nearly cumming in my pants. I dropped the towels that was carrying, which sparked a flurry of movement, inside the steamy bathroom. I gingerly opened the door to see them both in the water-filled bathtub, acting as if nothing had transpired.

xxxxx

Later, that evening after dinner, Erica asked if I would read them a bedtime story. I thought they may be too old for stuff like that … I mean they weren’t five or six anymore. We were all dressed for bed after our meal and Erica wanted to sit on my lap, as we all sat on my large leather couch. I allowed it but quickly found myself becoming erect beneath my nightgown as she squirmed around on my lap. I hoped my erection wasn’t noticed but I guess I was lying to myself.

Eric called me “Sale Papa” (dirty daddy) and said that their last “Sale Papa” liked to share books with them. He described them as big picture books. I had bought some juvenile literature for them but Eric suggested that their last “Sale Papa” books had pictures of naked people in them. Men with women. Men with men. Women with women. All, with young boys and girls.

Erica kissed my mouth. She asked if l like to look at picture books of people fucking. The word “fucking” seemed out of place, coming from such a young girl … but of course, my recent memories of having sex with Sebastian’s twins immediately came to mind. Her bottom pressed deliberately against my hardened erection, trapping against my stomach and rubbing back and forth, purposefully against me. “La petite salope faisait pleurer ma bite avec du liquide pré-éjaculatoire” (this was no accident). The little fuckers were seducing me. I laughed inwardly but secretly wanted it — that’s when I knew that “Sale Papa” wanted to fuck his new children, desperately.

I wasn’t sure what to say. Eric said that he knew that I watched them. They giggled. They knew I was outside the bedroom door and that I spied on them in the bathroom. I was flushed with guilt. Eric said that they last “Sale Papa” liked to watch them too … in the beginning … but soon he wanted them to come to his bed … he’d been the one that taught them to piss in his mouth … it seemed my cousin was an incestuous pedophile … did “Sale Papa” want to play with them in bed tonight? Could they wet the bed together and make it smell like the toilet? … Of course, I did.

Erica pulled her nightshirt over her head. Her brother undressed too, displaying his erect cock. Erica said that her brother was a “bonne suceuse de bite” (good cock sucker). And that their last “Sale Papa” loved to put his cock in Eric’s bottom while she licked his balls and dirty hole. Would I “enfonce ma grosse bite dans leurs entrailles sales” (sodomize) them both, she asked.

xxxxx

THE END?

xxxxx

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