Date: Mon, 19 Sep 2011 11:42:23 -0600
From: Paul Crumrine <purple-prose@hotmail.com>
Subject: The Fire Dance of Yog-Sothoth

The Fire Dance of Yog-Sothoth
By David Holly


(Note: The Fire Dance of Yog-Sothoth is the title story from a collection
of my writings. Check my website http://gaywriter.org for more
information.)


   The drumming had begun five days previously. We five,
Mr. Wilkes-Johnson, Dr. Blair Bevington, the explorer Sam Ford, the young
Reverend Peter Reed, and I, Harp Ahearn, a graduate student in
anthropology, were the only true humans on the expedition, and the drumming
was getting on our nerves. Our seven mock-human guides pretended they
didn't hear the steady pulse beating through the hideous flora.

   Sweat running in rivulets down his face, Wilkes-Johnson lifted his hands
toward the green fog drifting around us. When he moved, his shirt shredded
up the back and under his arms. "This shitty planet," he swore.

   "Please, sir," Reverend Peter Reed remonstrated.

   "Goddamn, preacher," Sam Ford jumped in. "What the hell do you expect
the man to say. Everything we have is rotting. The metal is rusting. Our
clothes are shredding like tissue paper. The straps on our packs won't last
out the day, even if anything we're carrying is worth saving. Even the
glass bottles containing water and food are etching."

   "It's a good thing the path is like a springy carpet--loathsome but
springy," I contributed. "My boots completely rotted away yesterday." The
ground was springy soft, but every footstep created a rising a pungent
odor. "At least we can walk comfortably barefoot."

   My anthropology professor, Dr. Bevington, grunted with distress and
stepped to the side of the trail. I hurt for him, but we were all suffering
the same symptoms. Even though we ate and drank only what we had carried
with us, the air itself was polluted. Every breath worked its way through
our bodies. Dr. Bevington yanked down his shorts, which split into three
pieces. He squatted over the spongy ground, almost weeping so great was his
distress.

   "Ugh, the unholy stench," Reverend Peter Reed complained, holding his
nose. Hardly were the words out then a blast of gaseous diarrhea struck
him. He did not manage to pull off his shorts in time. "Oh, crap, I blew a
hole right through my shorts," the reverend swore. Despite the hideousness
of the situation, I could not help laughing. I had been chuckling over the
Reverend Peter Reed's inconsistencies during our whole voyage, and this one
was the final straw. Even Dr. Bevington laughed as he tried ineffectively
to wipe himself with the remnants of his clothing.

   Say what one may about Peter Reed, the young reverend had a sense of
humor. On top of that, he was courageous beyond measure. Sometimes his
religious sensibilities came to the forefront, but he was deep down a
realistic man with a deep well of courage. No poltroon would join an
exploration such as ours.

   "We're going native now, Bevington," Peter Reed said. He pointed toward
our guides who wore nothing to cover their frogfish skin.

   "Fuck it, let's all go naked," Sam Ford insisted. "These rotting clothes
are eating into our skin. And let's abandon everything except for food and
water."

   "The directional equipment. Our journals," Wilkes-Johnson protested.

   "Have you checked the condition of either today?" I asked pulling strips
of rotting cloth from my body. The paper turned into dust and the equipment
is too corroded to function as a paperweight."

   "How do we find out way back to our spaceship?"

   We could not meet each other's eyes; Wilkes-Johnson had asked the
dreaded question. At last, my professor's eyes met mine, which broke the
silence. Sam Ford shrugged fatalistically. "We're just screwed."

   "That's the pisser, isn't it?" Wilkes-Johnson muttered. "Forget I asked
that question, fellows. I guess we all know the answer. By now, this
planet's atmosphere has so buggered our wrecked spaceship that it'll never
fly again. We're stuck here for good. Unless we're rescued, which isn't
bloody likely since we went off the charts when that wormhole whipped us
out of the solar system."

   Naked and hopeless, we trudged onward. We walked as the planet's
gigantic red sun set, a surmised event due to the thick mushy foliage. We
walked as darkness deepened. We walked as we grew more exhausted and every
muscle urged us to stop. But whenever one of us suggested we rest until
daylight, our native guides urged us onward. Their urging was so insistent
that we knew that they had knowledge that we did not possess, and that we
had to press onward.

   The sound of the drumming increased. After we had been walking along the
pitch-dark path for about two hours, we saw a lurid glow ahead. At length,
we reached a precipice where we lay on our stomachs and looked over the
edge. An enormous circle of fire dominated the plain below us. The fire
circle's radius must have been the length of a basketball court or an
Olympic sized pool. Hundreds of worshipers danced naked around the fire,
which our improving vision soon confirmed came from an enormous pit.

   As they danced, aliens of a thousand species chanted a ritual formula:
"Ph'nglui mglw'nafh Cthulhu R'lyeh wgah'nagl fhtagn."

   A group of men, too many to count, surrounded the fire pit, fell onto
their knees, placed their elbows on the hot, fetid ground, and presented
their naked asses to the flames. "Cthulhu fhtagn. Ph'nglui mglw'nafh
Cthulhu R'lyeh wgah'nagl fhtagn. Cthulhu fhtagn. Ph'nglui mglw'nafh Cthulhu
R'lyeh wgah'nagl fhtagn. Cthulhu fhtagn."

   "I've heard these words before," Mr. Wilkes-Johnson mused. "Oh, bugger."

   "I know what this is," Dr. Blair Bevington asserted, his tone indicating
growing horror and fascination.

   "This is the ultimate evil," Reverend Peter Reed moaned.

   Sam Ford raised his eyebrows at me, but I shook my head. I had no more
idea than he did. "What the hell?" Sam asked.

   "Better not to know," Peter Reed whispered. "Better to remain in
blissful ignorance than to have foreknowledge." If he intended that remark
to comfort us, he missed his mark entirely.

   As we watched, the tempo of the drumming increased to a feverish
pitch. The dancers danced more wildly, while the men circling the fire pit
wiggled their asses as if they were inviting some unspeakable act. The
diversity of the men struck me. These aliens represented every conceivable
planet, and some utterly implausible. Their only commonalities were their
roughly humanoid appearance and their masculine gender.

   "Cover your eyes, Harp," Dr. Bevington urged. "I think this is the
moment."

   I wouldn't have covered my eyes had doing so spirited me back safe in my
bed in my dormitory in Arkham, Massachusetts. As I watched, the fire grew
in the pit, grew and rose up higher, swelling its reddish tongues
lofty. Then I saw the tentacles writhing out of the flames. Some monster
lived down in that pit of fire, some salamander that put forth glowing
orange tentacles that slithered toward the men facing away from the pit.

   "What grisly sacrifice is this?" I demanded, shouting over the
thunderous drums, the frenzied dance, and the howling chant.

   "Cthulhu fhtagn!" Wilkes-Johnson gasped. "Oh, bugger us jointly or
severally, they're chanting Cthulhu fhtagn. Oh, the ultimate bugger."

   I turned around to see how our guides were reacting, and the scene that
met my eyes staggered me. The seven mock-humans had formed a train, and
each had his inhuman cock plugged into the anus of the one before him. The
train of monstrous flesh was rocking back and forth, each individual taking
the cock of his fellow. Shub, the first in line, was facing me. Looking
into Shub's eyes expecting to see shame, disgrace, and horror as another
pounded his ass, I was stunned to see that the alien's face was painted
with unspeakable bliss.

   "Sam," I yelped, grapping the explorer's bare arm.

   Sam Ford sneered at the butt-fucking aliens, but his tone was less
judgmental. "Looks like those fellows are having a good time, Harp." I
suspected the sneer had been for the reverend's benefit because Peter Reed
had just noticed the goings-on behind him.

   "Providence forefend this scourge," Peter Reed gasped.

   "Have you ever seen anything like that, Harp?" Sam Ford whispered. "I
mean, back there at that college you go to."

   Sam Ford had noticed what the others had not--I hoped. The scene had
aroused me. My cock wasn't in full erection, but it had swollen
perceptibly. And the explorer had hit the mark. I had once witnessed such a
scene back at the all-male Ivy League Miskatonic University on the
myth-heavy Miskatonic River that flows through Arkham. I was approaching
the river for a midnight skinny dip after a rather riotous bump supper when
I encountered a group of upper-classmen performing an anal daisy chain on
the riverbank.

   Of course I ran like a goosed ghoul, but ever after I had wondered what
it would have been like had I joined the chain gang of the fucked. My
cowardice had long been one of my secret regrets. What would it be like to
join that rebellious train? To take another fellow's billowy buttocks and
slide my cock into his anal cleft and penetrate his exit hole? To push my
own bounty back to receive the chap behind me? To experience that
shuddering group orgasm? To feel hot wet cum in my ass?

   I conveyed nothing of these disgraceful memories or speculations to my
companions. Peter Reed was remonstrating against the alien's behavior,
while Sam Ford tipped me a lewd wink. Did the explorer read my thoughts?
The idea made me uncomfortable, so I turned my back on the alien sex,
meaning also that I turned my naked and unprotected ass upon these
unfathomable beings, and looked again on the scene below.

   The drumming became utter discord. The dancers lost all rhythm and
simply flung their bodies into impossible and unmentionable poses. The fire
in the pit rose higher as more tentacles emerged and writhed toward the
male beings offering their asses in unspeakable sacrifice.

   The first of the tentacles reached their targets. As I watched, rapt and
erect and rubbing my cock (unconsciously), tentacles climbed thighs and
rubbed ass cracks. The victims did not flee, but pushed their butts back
and wiggled to invite obscene penetration. If they wanted to get fucked by
monster feelers, they could not be more obvious.

   The tentacle invasion began immediately. The first alien to be
penetrated by one of the fiery salamander's long tentacles shrieked. I
could not determine whether the shriek was one of despair or
joy. Nonetheless, the tentacle drove into his ass, penetrating him deep,
and thrusting hard and fast. Invasion after invasion followed, each hominid
asshole a sacrifice to the unholy lusts of this evil monster. A sick
depravity swept over me. I felt like I was one of those being
penetrated. What's worse, I wanted the penetration. I wanted this eternal
night, this perpetual darkness, this demon of fire, this elemental of
profanity to enter into my ass, to take me, to fuck me, to make me its
own. I wanted the damnation. I wanted the unholy seed ejaculated into my
ass. I wanted for my asshole to be dilated, abused, cheapened, and seeded
by this shadow out of mind.

   I looked around wildly. My cock was so hard that I thought I could shoot
my cum right onto this fetid ground. However, I was not alone. Every member
of my party felt the arousal from the hideous forces below us. Every one of
us was erect, even our preacher who tried so desperately to conceal his
erection, and failed so miserably. I realized that I was jacking off in
front of the entire crew, but I could not stop. I flogged my cock hard,
wringing my dickhead. Tremors of orgasm shot through me as I watched the
hellish butt fuck orgy below and tried to ignore the daisy chain just
behind. Oh, if one of those big aliens would stuff his froggy skinned cock
into my ass. Oh, to take his god-awful spunk. Rapturous tremors seized
me. I was coming. I fell into the mindless orgasm, rising to my knees and
flinging my cum over the edge of the precipice so that it fell upon the men
dancing below. I came. I came, and so did all of my companions; my
professor, the British researcher, the American explorer, and the young
reverend. Every human male was masturbating uncontrollably and ejaculating
over the edge.

   Drained, gasping, wet, dicks glistening with spittle and cum, we
sprawled in a heap. Our alien guides finished their convivial butt fuck and
clustered around us. In my disordered state, I smiled shyly at Yogash. The
alien responded by lifting me to my feet and imprisoning my arms behind
me. The others followed suit.

   "Buggered," Wilkes-Johnson yelped.

   "Fucking hell, these bastards were never our guides," Sam Ford
exclaimed. "All the time they were our captors. We were too stupid to
realize it."

   "May God preserve us," Peter Reed prayed.

   So the truth was out at last. We were the prisoners of these depraved
beings.


   Looking back, we should have known. Launched by the Arkham Space
Program, we five had slingshot Jupiter, picked up unthinkable speed, and
shot toward a trans-Plutonian orbit. The black hole seemed to come out of
nowhere. "There's a massive gravity fluctuation," Mr. Wilkes-Johnson, our
astrogator, had howled. "Evasive maneuvers."

   Despite Sam Ford's piloting skill, the black hole's gravitational pull
caught us. Had we not glanced off the edge of some dark matter, the black
hole would have crushed us along with the rest of the stuff it was pulling
in. However, our impact with the dark matter sent us reeling directly into
the opening wormhole. As we fell into the anomaly, the universe twisted
inside out. The rapid deceleration knocked us out of our senses. When we
returned to consciousness, our spaceship was spiraling into the atmosphere
of a hot and fetid world.

   The seven aliens gathered around our wrecked craft. To our shock, they
understood our language and made their own names clear. These seven-foot
high, frog-fleshed creatures were named Nug, Yog, Shub, Shaurash, Yogash,
K'baa, and Ghoth.

   Eyeing our alien hosts with British disdain, Mr. Wilkes-Johnson
carefully enunciated, "Say, we're in a predicament."

   "We're screwed with our pants on," Sam Ford clarified.

   "We appear to be both lost and wrecked," Dr. Blair Bevington said,
giving voice to the obvious.

   I said nothing at all, but the young Reverend Peter Reed inquired
whether they had "found the Lord." I realized that he was looking for some
confirmation regarding the universality of his religion, but his word
choice was poor.

   The aliens were mystified until Peter Reed managed to clarify his
wording by invoking several names for God. Comprehension dawning, the
aliens became more animated and urged us to accompany them. We filled our
packs and set off along the hot and fetid path. Peter Reed broke off some
of the foliage and examined it. "It's rather mushy and fragile."

   "Yucky," Wilkes-Johnson said. Curious, he reached out to feel the of a
ghastly bark gigantic tree trunk. His arm went clear through the
trunk. Wilkes-Johnson's gasped and pulled his arm back. Tiny spores of an
obscene crimson hue adhered to his skin. He tried to brush them off, but
they clung to his hand and clothing. He ended up wasting some of our
precious drinking water in order to clean the mess from his skin.

   We walked all that day in the sweltering heat, and when the horrible
darkness fell, we slept as close as we could considering our cooking
skin. By evening of the second day, we all had flu-like symptoms but the
disease passed by morning.

   "It's the air," Dr. Bevington said. "Who knows what we're taking in with
every breath.

   "Our lungs are going slumming," Wilkes-Johnson quipped.

   "Lungs, shit," Sam Ford griped. "It's gone all the way through our
systems." He quickly pulled down his shorts and squatted beside the
path--just in time. By the end of the third day, we were all crapping
like maniacs.

   On the fourth day, we reached a disgusting pond. The natives drank
deeply and encouraged us to do the same. They kept telling us that we would
feel much better if we drank the native water, but none of us wanted to
experiment. The water smelled like something that should have been buried
last week. Sometime during that day, we became aware of the drumming. None
of us could say when we first noticed it. We agreed that we had been
hearing the drums for some time, perhaps even since we first emerged from
our crashed craft, but we could not be certain. By the time we heard it, we
knew that there was no turning back for us, if that had ever been an
option. We had to go on to the source.

   After we witnessed the fire dance (and acted as we did), our native
guides shut us up in a small hut formed out of hard stone. The temperature
inside was very hot, and the natives had taken away our last containers of
water and food.
   Of course, they thoughtfully supplied us with plenty of the native
beverage, the same horrible water we had encountered in the pond.

   "Wouldn't you know it," Wilkes-Johnson said, punching the stone walls
and bloodying his knuckles. "The only substance on this bloody buggering
world that's solid, and those blighters lock us up in it." His voice came
as a croak from his parched throat.

   I felt like I could stand it no longer. I dipped some of the native
water and placed it in my mouth. My dry tissues screamed out as the water
hydrated them. The entire mouthful vanished without my swallowing. I tried
a bit more, letting it trickle down the back of my throat. The others
watched me with horrified fascination.

   "It's not all that bad," I said. I waited a minute before I drank some
more. The horrible odor seemed to have gone away--or--horrible
thought--my body had become acclimated to the native water so I could no
longer perceive its loathsomeness.

   "I fear you have drunk evil into your soul, Harp," Peter Reed said. His
voice echoed his concern. Sam Ford emitted a snort of disgust and sampled
some of the water. In the end, everyone drank, even the preacher. So if I
had polluted my soul, so had he. The thought made me laugh out loud.

   Dr. Bevington gave me a bemused look. "What was that evil laugh, Harp?"

   "Oh, just something I thought of. It's nothing."

   "You sounded positively demonic," Peter Reed said.

   Throwing all caution out the window (if we had had a window), I picked
up one of the native fruits from the clay bowl. The fruit was malformed,
gnarly, and purplish flecked with whitish spots. I popped it into my mouth
and chewed. At first it tasted like something the cat dragged in, but after
I swallowed a bit the flavor grew on me.

   "How can you chew that beastly thing?" Wilkes-Johnson demanded.

   "Do you feel okay, Harp?" Dr. Bevington asked.

   Peter Reed shuddered and turned his back. For the first time, I thought
about what an attractive rump the preacher had. His buttocks swelled
nicely, and the cleft between looked deliciously tight. I slipped behind
him and rubbed my cock against his crack. My cock hardened immediately.

   "What are you DOING?" Peter Reed shrieked. "My God!"

   "Harp," Dr. Bevington yelped.

   "Get hold of yourself, man," Wilkes-Johnson exclaimed.

   Instead of getting hold of myself, I got hold of Peter Reed. I gripped
his hips with both hands and pushed my cock into his crack. "Help me," the
young reverend screamed. "Oh, help me."

   Strong hands gripped me. Sam Ford and Dr. Bevington were both trying to
pull me off of him. I held onto Peter Reed and humped his butt crack with
my hard-on. He was shrieking and the others swearing.

   "Harp! Harp!" Dr. Bevington kept shouting, trying to break through my
insane mania.

   "He's like a goddamn dog humping your leg," Sam Ford swore. "You either
gotta shoot the bastard or wait 'till he squirts."

   "Oh, Jesus, don't let him squirt," Peter Reed cried.

   Wilkes-Johnson joined the contest then, and the three men together
succeeded in pulling me away from the reverend. Peter Reed pressed his
naked body against the hot stone of the farthest wall while the others held
me.

   "I'm thirsty," I said.

   "Could it be in the blasted water?" Wilkes-Johnson asked.

   "We all drank some," Sam said. "The rest of us didn't turn into gripping
cornholers."

   "I'm thirsty," I shouted.

   "Let him drink," Dr. Bevington suggested. "Maybe that will calm him
down."

   I must have downed half a gallon of that interesting water. It tasted
good. The necrophagous flavor tantalized my taste buds. As the water flowed
through my body, I felt better than I had felt since we arrived on this
strange world.

   "What happened to you, Harp?" Dr. Bevington asked.

   "I don't know."

   "Do you remember what you did? The way you attacked poor Reed there?"

   "Tried to bugger him good," Wilkes-Johnson contributed.

   "I remember. I can only describe what I was feeling. There was no
conscious decision. I saw the way his ass curves. He has curvy buttocks and
the cleft looks inviting. I couldn't help myself."

   "Well, try calling a bit of Christian restraint next time," Peter Reed
suggested moving away from the wall. He turned to Wilkes-Johnson to ask
something, which presented me with a half-view of his ass. I went for him
immediately, but Sam stuck out his foot and tripped me. I sprawled on my
face.

   "Better not let him see your bare ass," Sam Ford suggested.

   "How in the name of all that is holy am I supposed to cover myself?"
Peter Reed protested. "None of us has a stitch."

   I climbed to my feet as though nothing had happened, drank some more
water, and ate three more pieces of the strange fruit. The others viewed me
with alarm.

   "Now he'll really go off his chump," Wilkes-Johnson muttered darkly.

   "Now where'd this book come from?" Sam Ford said, picking up an ancient
tome of lost knowledge. "Livre d'Eibon. What the fuck?"

   "That book is in the college library," I piped up. "Some guy named Eibon
writes about his trip to the planet Shaggai and the weird rituals of the
deity Zhothaqquah's worshippers."

   "Like that horror show we witnessed last night?" Peter Reed said,
viewing the antiquarian volume with disgust.

   "Eibon is a wizard who slays otherworldly monsters," I concluded.

   Sam Ford and Wilkes-Johnson appeared to be impressed by my erudition,
while my professor beamed at me with pride. Peter Reed's voiced only one
comment: "Make him stay over there."

   What had I said about Peter Reed not being a fraidy-cat? I found
something that scared him weak kneed--my hard dick.

   K'baa and Ghoth arrived then, bringing more water and our evening
meal. Wilkes-Johnson gasped when he spied our food, and Peter Reed
gagged. For some reason, I could not take my eyes from the platter. We had
been served something that looked like thick worms.

   "Eat," K'baa ordered. "Everybody eat."

   "Have a heart," Wilkes-Johnson groaned. "We can't eat worms. The water
is bad enough, and those bloody plum things turned Ahern here into a
psychotic bugger-butt."

   "Eat," Ghoth said. To demonstrate that they weren't poisoning us, the
alien picked out a delectable worm, popped it into his mouth, and licked
his chops. "Good."

   "What the hell, in for a penny--" I quipped reaching for the
platter. Sam Ford slapped my hand away.

   "I'll try one first, Harp," said he. "No matter what's in it, nothing is
going to make me try to cornhole the preacher."

   Sam popped a worm thing into his mouth. He resisted chewing for a few
seconds, but his eyes glinted with pleasure and he finally chewed and
swallowed. "Damned tasty," he pronounced. "Kinda taste like truffles."

   I ate one then. At first, the aroma of cooked mushrooms filled my
nostrils; then a more intense taste pleasured my mouth and nose. The worm
was just chewy enough to be pleasant. I reached for a second one."

   "As Harp was about to say, `In for a penny, in for a pound,'"
Wilkes-Johnson echoed, taking one of the strange delicacies.

   "Any port in the storm," added the professor, only slightly mocking
Wilkes-Johnson. The British researcher did not take offense; instead, he
took a second helping from the platter.

   "Oh, Hell and Damnation," Peter Reed said, seeing that we had all eaten
of the foreign food. "Christ, forgive me, but I'm famished." He too ate a
worm and went back for seconds.

   By the time our seven former guides came to escort us to the fire dance,
we were well prepared. We had eaten the entire platter of worms, and
everyone had consumed those terrible fruits. We washed those odd foods down
with the hellish water. All the evil influences of the planet were coursing
through our bodies. Naked, sweating but undismayed, we followed the tall
creatures to the circle of dancers. Our heartbeats had long since attuned
to the rhythm of the drums; indeed the beat had become so much a part of us
that we hardly heard it.

   As our guides merged us into the circle of dancers, I felt waves of
euphoria rushing over me. Coursing through me came a rapture of
sensation. The dancers began chanting again, and although I could not
understand the words, they tingled in my cells. The alien ahead of me was
naked and erect, even though he was barely four feet high and matted with a
pink outer netting of skin. I should have found him hideous, but the way he
wiggled his ass awoke the same mad lust in me that ended in my trying to
mount Peter Reed.

   The thought held me back for a moment, and I wanted to see how the
preacher was reacting. I was stunned to see Peter Reed wiggling his own ass
as though he hoped one of these alien monsters would fill it. His erect
cock was leaking a thin stream of some substance that was not quite
cum. Placing my hand on my dick, I found that I was dribbling the same
substance out of my rocky erection. I took a quick taste. The fluid had
more of the flavor of the weird worms we had eaten, mingled with the
intense tastes of the water and the fruit, than it shared with the natural
flavor of my semen.

   We had been dancing obscenely around the fire pit for some time when the
heat grew more intense. Lusts such as I had never imagined swelled up
inside of me. I wanted to do things that might have horrified me at
home. What would it be like to lick the asshole of that little alien
swinging his butt so promiscuously in front of me? Would I suck Sam Ford's
cock? The explorer swung an impressive club, and I could imagine fucking it
with my throat.

   The "thing cannot be described" was rising up from the fire
pit. "Cthulhu fhtagn!" The words flew unbidden from my mouth.

   Men formed an inner ring around the fire pit, we five among them. I fell
to my knees, placed my elbows on the hot, fetid ground, and presented my
naked ass to the flames. "Cthulhu fhtagn. Ph'nglui mglw'nafh Cthulhu R'lyeh
wgah'nagl fhtagn. Cthulhu fhtagn. Ph'nglui mglw'nafh Cthulhu R'lyeh
wgah'nagl fhtagn. Cthulhu fhtagn."

   Dr. Bevington was beside me, wiggling his ass with hideous invitation,
and joining his voice in homage to the "the green, sticky spawn of the
stars." I turned my head and saw Peter Reed, his ass waggling and his mouth
chanting the damnable invocation. The other individuals of our group were
scattered around the circle, each offering his rectum in sacrifice to the
unholy being. The heat on my buttocks grew in intensity as a lurid glow
rose up over me, over all of us.

   I was gripped with a sexual frenzy. I wanted those monstrous tentacles
to penetrate me; yet, my carnality sickened me. I was terrified and
hopeful, feeling deep down that this moment was the last time I would know
myself. I was about to surrender my individuality to some dreadful group
immorality.

   I felt the closeness of the thing coming out of the fire. I saw flabby
claws grip Dr. Bevington's thighs, while writhing feelers wrapped him. For
him then, there was no escape. He was going to be penetrated. He was going
to be filled with the alien tentacles, those evil tentacles, and they would
shoot their foul fluids into him.

   Could I have leaped up and run then? Perhaps. But run to where? Even as
I feverishly tried to plan an escape, I knew I had waited too long. I felt
the flabby claws gripping my thighs, a grip greatly to be desired. The
feelers wrapped my arms and my torso. They imprisoned my legs and held me
in the position that the atrocious salamander of sin desired.

   "Yog-Sothoth! Yog-Sothoth! Yog-Sothoth!" The chant we had mouthed had
spoken of the dream of Cthulhu, but it was not that sleeping evil that was
taking us. Vapors of the terrible truth were filtering into my brain,
altering my brain cells to the shape of my sacrifice. I had come to the
gate, and the key to the gate would fully come into me, and my essence
would be reanimated.

   "Y'ai'ng'ngah Yog-Sothoth h'ee-l'geb f'ai trhodog uaaah." The gate of
the great abyss opened. I fell, I fall, I am falling, I continue to
fall. In the vaporous raptures of pleasure, time and space lose all
meaning. The flabby claws grip me and feelers encircle me. I am held tight
in the position of reception. "The favor of the God requires eternal
servitude," echoes repeatedly through my brain. My asshole is
opening. Something tremendous pressures my anal sphincter.

   "I am your devoted slave," I whisper.

   "Forever? My slave--infinite and eternal?" queries the Beyond-One.

   "Forever," I promise. "Your slave--infinite and eternal. Your will is
my own."

   "Embrace the infinite night, slave. Eternal Darkness flows into you."

   My asshole is completely open to Him. He presses his tentacle in, in,
in. He opens me wider than I can possibly go, but I feel no pain. Raptures
course through me. I know that He is going in deep and feel only
joy. Pleasure me. Pleasure my ass.

   My cock is erupting constantly. I approach orgasm. I am in orgasm. The
orgasm deepens into eternity. My cock is coming; my dick head is tingling,
my balls are clenching; my asshole is dilated around the Monster filling
me.

   "As you please Me, you gain My knowledge. You shall know the Eternal
Depths. That which is forbidden for mortals to know--you shall know." The
feelers caress my face as the thick tentacle fucks my ass. A hot pinkish
tentacle formed like a thick circumcised cock touches my lips. I open my
mouth to receive it. Fuck my mouth as You will. I shall please You.

   The dick shaped tentacle passes between my lips. It slides along my
tongue. Already it is leaking its hellish cum. My lips and tongue are in
orgasm from the explosive taste. The cum is hot. It is thick. I let it roll
down my throat. I let it fill me.

   Forbidden knowledge pours into me. My body is in orgasm. Waves of
pleasure crash upon the beaches of my cells. Yet with the pleasure comes
the wet knowledge. I see the vaporous existence of things beyond imagining;
I feel the beingness of energy and matter; I am at one with infinite time
and infinite space. The fluids pour into me. My bowels are filled with the
wet spunk of eternal decay, and I drink the moldering putrefaction down as
the cock tentacle fucks my throat. I look into nothingness, and hear the
stark emptiness.

   I taste cold and smell heat, as my cock bucks out a strange cum. The
more cum I take into my body, the more I have to expel. And as long as I
have semen to shoot, I remain in orgasm. The lightning in my brain rips my
mental cells. I am lost--lost to everything, and lost to myself.

   Now I am hot, so hot that I burn. My brain is nothing but fumes, but my
body still thrills to the tentacles pleasuring me. I concentrate on giving
pleasure to Him. To please Him is my highest duty, my greatest goal, my
submissive will. The pleasure becomes so intense that I must die.

   I came slowly back to myself--and not myself. The being who had been
Sam Ford cuddled against me. The thing formerly known as Peter Reed pressed
its slick cock against my ass. My vision was blurred, and when I wiped my
eyes, I discovered that my face was frosted with alien cum. My companions
and I climbed shakily to our feet. The fire had burned low, and the alien
dawn was fast approaching.

   As we stood trembling after sampling the fruit of the tree of knowledge
of good and evil, K'baa, Shaurash, and Yogash helped us join a group of new
initiates, others from unknown worlds who had participated in the ritual
with us five earthlings.

   "You have promised eternal servitude," Shaurash said. "Now you await the
ultimate blasphemy. You shall be carried into the Nightmare and to the
Thing whose Name no lips dare utter. The drums assist Him in His dread
slumber. He grinds His terrible teeth in inconceivable darkness, and His
servants obey in sexual supplication as they flop mindlessly in His eternal
perverted dance."

   "Something is coming," gasped the thing that had been
Mr. Wilkes-Johnson. "More than one. Many of the buggers."

   "Yaj?'u ash-shudhdh?dh," Nug announced, arriving late with Yog and Ghoth
at his heels.

   Despite my new knowledge, I could not translate the words
quickly. Dr. Bevington assisted me.

   "The Abnormal Ones. They come now," he said in a hushed voice. His eyes
were veiled with anticipation.

   "Yes, here are your mounts. They will convey you to your
destination--to the One who owns you."

   The flames had fallen so low that I could not clearly make out the
assembled creatures. One by one, the aliens who had been inducted along
with us seated themselves and were conveyed toward the falling green fog.

   Of our group, Peter Reed was first to take a seat. He straddled the
creature, lifted himself as though assuming a position, and lowered his ass
upon the beast. I was close enough to see the feral expression plaster his
lips and the degenerate light illuminate his eyes. Mounted on the Abnormal
One, Peter Reed no longer looked like anything human. He was the picture of
depravity as he departed from our midst.

   Dr. Blair Bevington was next. He rose up onto the creature and hunched
down with a grunt. Sheer wantonness suffused his features, and his creature
carried him into the fog.

   Evil cum dripping from my ass, I felt impelled toward the creature that
was almost nuzzling my bare leg. However, I pulled back and let the
explorer Sam Ford go next. Sam mounted his mount, and finding the mounting
satisfying, Sam let his mouth lapse into an evil leer and his eyes glow
with deviant light.

   The depravity that painted Mr. Wilkes-Johnson's countenance outshone the
hideous transformations of the rest. His beast carried him away as
Wilkes-Johnson howled "Bugger, bugger, bugger," and bounced upon the back
of his mount.

   Then I was left, last, alone so to speak, hovering upon the brink of the
ultimate wickedness. For the first time, I had a clear view of my intended
mount. The creature had four elephantine feet and legs, a leather skin, and
neither head nor tail. Its only appendage was the thick leathery cock
protruding straight up from the middle of its back. The cock's gray
leathery skin was slick with ejaculated spunk, and its hole was pouring out
a steady stream. I could smell the eternal corruption pumping out of that
terrible dick.

   Horrified by my own actions, I threw my right leg over my mount. I
lowered my ass onto its horrible erection until I felt the slippery head
touch my asshole. I let the gravity of this vile planet do the rest. I rode
downward, and as I did, a terrible beauty, sinister, atrocious, submissive,
and corrupt, entered into me. Rising again on the cock, I dropped my ass
and impaled my rectum all the way. Trotting so that I bounced deliciously,
the creature carried me toward the green fog swirling at the edge of that
pit where we danced the Fire Dance of Yog-Sothoth.

The End



About the Author

David Holly lives, moves, and has his being in Portland, Oregon and
environs. He is fascinated by the human penchant for odd mythologies,
bizarre rituals, diverse religions, forlorn hopes, and broken dreams. He
lives in a garish apartment with multihued walls hung with Haitian
paintings and shelved with two thousand books. Sharing the apartment are
sundry fur-bearing fellow mortals. He is exceptionally fond of strong
coffee, red wine, English bitters, rich stout, inverted roller coasters,
nude beaches, and hot-looking guys. He wears bright colors, tight slacks,
exotic underwear, and slinky swim briefs. He is joyously pagan and loves
making merry in heathen celebrations, marching in pride parades, and
frolicking naked on Sauvie Island's Collins Beach. Find out more about
David Holly and his numerous publications at facebook.com/david.holly2 and
http://gaywriter.org.