DECONSECRATION Chapter 2
The next morning is stormy, wind and rain whipping the oaks, thunder and lightning occupying the city's ears and eyes. The The kid is gone, and with him the sounds and the drugs.
"Just as well," I think. My head is spinning a bit and my cock is sore and caked with cum and dried blood. I can't tell if the blood is from my cock or the German kid's. Because pain is one of my erotic cravings, I'm acutely attuned to the sensation coming from my abused penis. Even though I experienced a drug induced twelve shot orgasm just the night before and am still caked with mine and the kid's cum, the discomfort in my cock makes me crave more.
"Fuck the kraut kid," I think and decide to hook myself up to one of my favorite ET 312 estim programs. As I do, I hear a rumbling voice other than my own say, "Take your clothes off, boy. We can do this together. I will be with you every moment as you suffer" Totally undone by the disembodied voice, I run through the small house, room to room searching for the voice's source. The house and the port cochere are empty. "Could have been a drug flashback from last night," I think, uncomfortably. "The kid did have a weirdly deep voice." Warily I take my clothes off anyway.
My hands shaking, still pumping a massive fear induced adrenaline rush, I decide to put my body through its paces and use multiple power sources. I connect the electrodes, two two from the 312 to my cock, using head and base rings, a tens probe up my ass and a second tens unit, electrodes wired to my balls. I gradually turn up the juice in my ass until I am squirming in the gathering ecstasy of a nonstop fucking. The control for my balls is attached to a separate unit and I elevate that until my testicles feel as though they are being hammered rhythmically and relentlessly. I imagine a hot, sweaty college boxer, just out of the ring, gloves off, hands still taped, doing a victory lap around my balls.
The rings at the base of my corona and shaft require the final adjustment. I am writhing so from the pounding and fucking that I have a hard time managing the controls for the penis electrodes. I turn up the juice for the base ring and am rewarded with a sensation of throbbing, alternating up and down my shaft. Finally I am able to grasp the control for the glans ring and turn it to adjust the setting so the burning pain it produces presents in unison with the other sources of power. As the storm rages outside my bedroom, I ride this other electrical storm to an explosive, screaming orgasm as my cock jerks wildly to the conjoint rhythms of ejaculation and estim. As I cum, a bolt of lightning strikes one of the oaks, momentarily followed by fire and a massive clap of thunder. "See what I can do?" I hear. "This is just your first taste of my power. Follow your dreams, for there is much more waiting for you."
More about the dreams following this brief bio.
Clearly I have some masochistic leanings. The rest is, I think, a pretty ordinary, if sometimes sad, story. I am five feet, ten inches tall, from Portuguese - Scottish stock. I have my mother's ginger completion and passivity together with my father's angular features and fascination with pain . I have a bowl haircut circumcision and dark red pubic hair which I keep closely trimmed. My mother and grandmother say I'm handsome, my father that I am a pansy and need to learn to be otherwise. He believes that whipping my ass and my cock and balls with his broad leather belt will cure me. It does not. I had my first orgasm at thirteen as he brought his belt down on my cock one last time. When he and my mother got into their usual drunken brawl after that beating, I cleaned out my dad's wallet and left Port Arthur on a bus for New Orleans while they slept it off.
My maternal Grandmother, Rita, a third generation resident of the Garden District, took me in and provided for me through my adolescence as I healed physically and mentally. The long and short of my parental history is that soon after I left, my father beat my mother to death with his fists and was packed off to Huntsville for a much needed rest. My hope is that he got fucked to death by a pick ax handle.
The dreams began shortly after the German boy. They are variations of the same imagery every night. I am in the empty church, mounted to a cross. I am like the Christ above the door, hands and feet bound to the cross with leather thongs, my groin grotesquely huge and covered by a blood spattered loincloth. An enormous man watches my suffering silently and intently from the shadows just beyond my clear visual field. He is big, I can tell, but his features aside from size, are indistinct, though highly arousing. I see myself like this and I see this man each restless night. The images intensify and appear more real and erotically compelling each night and at each manifestation. Though I am soaked in my own cum every morning, I remain frustrated and increasingly unsatisfied.
In one particularly vivid dream sequence, I see the name "Immerath" on a sign in front of the church. "Finally", I think, "a concrete direction". I type, "Immarath", into Google and am rewarded with not just the town, but a picture of the church of St. Lambert, the church in my dreams. The church, long abandoned by the faithful, seems to be about all that remains of the town, which has been moved to make way for coal mining. St. Lambert himself was beaten to death in the seventh century to make way for the bishop's adultery. I go to bed that night with a sense of great relief, knowing the dreams have some basis in reality, perhaps from something I once saw on the History Channel? "Maybe", I think, "they will stop now." Fat chance.
In the last dream he is no longer standing but seated, still in shadow, on a high backed chair surrounded by other dim figures. The figures swirl around him in what appears to be an erotic dance, rigid penises bouncing in unison to a distant cacophony. He speaks in a rich commanding voice and says, "These dreams I sent you are over. Now you must come here and join me and my minions. Come boy, dance with us to the music of a thousand tortured souls. I will watch over you from my throne as you travel."
I am awakened the following morning by a steady knocking on my front door. It is a boy, looking suspiciously like the Hager sound boy, dressed in a UPS uniform. He waits as I open the envelope he hands me. It is first class ticket on Lufthansa to Dusseldorf. From his bag he brings out the Hagers and says, "the Master sent these said you might want one more bit of fun before you leave." I do, of course, and not just a bit. I shut the door and before I can turn around he grabs my t-shirt and rips it off my back, thrusts his right hand down the back of my pants and shoves a finger in my asshole. His finger is like a hot poker and slips into me as if coated with the grease. He finds my prostate quickly, whispering to me, "the heat you feel is from the Master," then grunts gutterally in what I think might be German. Though I do not understand the words he uses, they savage me like his finger, my cock drooling from his expert handling of my prostate. I loosen my belt, my 501s popping open and dropping to the floor. Now he has both hands on my ass, squeezing my cheeks with incredible strength. I can feel them bruise. He pushes me over the dining room table, place settings scattering, and throws my jeans in the corner. "Now you get my cock, little bitch", he whispers in that same fierce accent, his tone dark and threatening. He reaches around me and jams the 14mm Hager up my pisshole and his stiff uncut cock in my ass, up to his pubis in a single thrust, his foreskin making way for the crimson head that pushes brutally into my guts past any resistance. I am breathless and feel every inch of his cock and every inch of the Hager as he slams my ass and my cock again and again for what seems like hours. We cum in the same instant. I can smell blood and shit and cum as he disengages and we fall panting from the table into the ruined dinnerware. I fumble to find my t-shirt so i can wipe up the mess but he says, "No, boy. Use your mouth. You're going to need the practice." He pushes my head to his crotch and I lick the funky mixture from his groin. Before I can spit or swallow he roughly turns my head and kisses me, sucking and swirling the sexual elixir between our mouths and over our faces. "Jesus Christ," I say when I can breathe again. "Wrong dude," he says, puts on his khaki shorts and is out the door.