Respond to Thomas mortonsfork@protonmail.com
DECONSECRATION Chapter 3
The packet he handed me contains a first class Lufthansa ticket to Dusseldorf. When I arrive, I rent a small BMW and set out to drive the 100 kilometers to Immeranth. It is a sunny fall day and the late afternoon traffic is meager. There is a boy hitchhiking , cute from what I can see and I think, "Why not?"
I stop on the shoulder and he hops into the passenger seat. "Danke," he says, "but you are American, yes? I should say 'thanks', should I not?" I nod and he slouches in the seat, angling his groin toward me, thankfully, smiling and adjusting his package to allow me a better view. "Is this guy for real?" I wonder. As I consider his apparent offer he says in very good English, "I remember you from the leather bar in Dusseldorf, last night. I wanted you then and I do now, as you can plainly see." I open my mouth, but before I can respond, he grabs the wheel and with his other hand slams his fist into my balls. I moan and try to double up but my movement is constricted by the wheel. He eases us to the shoulder we so recently left. I am still gasping for breath when he throws himself between me and the wheel, brutally squeezing my crotch and forcing his tongue into my mouth as I continue to gasp for my next breath. I manage to free myself and open the door, falling, panting on to the gravel. I vomit. There is an irrigation ditch on the roadside. He pushes me toward it and we fall together into the muddy water. "Wash your face, bitch," he yells and shoves my head under the water as he rips open my 501s, grabs my cock and balls and relentlessly twists. Somehow he knows my scream is as much one of pleasure as pain and he redoubles his efforts, pulling and punching my junk frantically. I faint, sputtering and coughing in the muddy water. When I regain consciousness moments later, my face covered with mud and his cum, he is gone. The car is still running quietly on the side of the road but it is as empty as the landscape, as if he had never been there at all. My bruised penis, aching testicles and the acrid taste of his cum in my mouth tell me in no uncertain terms that it was not my imagination. I urinate by the car
and see bruises on my pale cock . There is a bit of blood in my urine.
I limp back to the car. I need to leave now as I am due at the church by dusk, to wait for what is next. The town has been mostly destroyed and I find the church standing alone in the midst of rubble near the southern part of the forlorn town. I am impressed with its facade, standing grotesquely whole above the surrounding destruction. I shudder, thinking of the man, the being who will stand above my destruction, as I am broken to his will, to his pleasure.
I park, under what I'm sure is a linden tree, the wood from which which German folklore says the true cross was made. The thought of the cross and the man with the bloodstained loincloth excites me and my abused penis produces a new dribble of bloody precum.
In awe and fear I think, "I am finally at my destination, this former holy place. It is where he has brought me and it is on this deconsecrated ground that he will come to me, will take me to the fire that drives him, the fire that drove my dreams." I wait as the shadows lengthen growing more anxious
and more aroused. I can only think of the shadowy figure in my dreams and the place I pray he will bring me, the man and the fire, both licking my crotch, my ass, my being, my soul. It is true that I think of him as a man, as he appeared in the dim corners of my dreams, but he has been but a shadow being, man-like, yes, but perhaps
much more than that.
I am alone still. It is nearly dark. The afternoon's excitement, my imagination and my anticipation have made my still painful groin sticky with precum. I can just see the entrance to the church I have watched through the long, late afternoon. Above the tall wooden doors is a frieze of a beardless Christ, a bulging rag covering his groin and like me, in agony, at the mercy of an angry god. One of the doors opens slightly, allowing a shard of yellow light to tumble down the steps to my feet. A figure is visible, still and portentous behind the heavy door. I continue to wait, hardly able to breathe, at the foot of the steps as I was instructed. The figure speaks and says to me, "Good boy - good boy. Do not speak. Your patience will be rewarded." His voice is deep and smooth with a vague rumbling undertone like a distant freeway. He is a man of ordinary stature, pale skinned and blonde like the men I've cruised since my arrival in Berlin last month, like the hitchhiker, like the boy in New Orleans. His voice is bigger than him as if it comes from a different reality, a place deeper than the soil beneath my feet. It soothes and terrifies me. More than anything, it arouses me.
He speaks of rewarding my patience. I wonder how I am to be rewarded.
Will it happen like in the dreams; fire and violence, hot wax and balls stretched beyond endurance? Another stream of precum rewards my memory. My cock strains to free itself from the hold of too tight white jockeys. He says, watching my hand pushing against my stiff cock for relief and knowing my thoughts, "Yes, boy. Those pleasures are the beginning, just the beginning. As you will see, there is no end to the master's creativity, nor to his hatred. As you come to know him you will learn of his hatred and learn to understand it as a manifestation of his love for you and your kind. Yes, you will love the pain he entrusts to you and he will love your pain. Now come. I am charged to prepare you for his presence."
He beckons me to enter the church. It is filled with the yellow light of the doorway and, rather than its dimly remembered incense, a vague smell of sulfur emanating from the holy water font next to the altar. As it was abandoned by the faithful, the church was stripped and is now just an enormous empty space, the altar bare save for a crude pentagram carved into its facing. The walls have been defaced with monstrous graffiti, not the narcissistic tags of the freeways, but forms of terrible, tormented beings. They preen and dance across the walls in macabre patterns, mouths open in agony and pleasure. Some are human, some not, but all appear to howl their message of pain and depravity in this place where worshipers once ripped apart and ate the body of Christ.
He says, "This is the Master's space now. I am just your guide here. I have carved the Master's symbol here on the altar. It is to you and to the symbol that he will be drawn when the time is right, when you are prepared. Now strip to your underwear. We will begin."
He surveys my body carefully, as I remove each piece of my clothing until I stand in my bloodstained Jockeys. "Nice," he says. "You are lean and tight, just as the Master expects. Now the shorts, please." I peel the tight white underwear down past my feet as my erect cock slaps my stomach leaving a blob of precum in my navel. As a redhead I am fairly proud of my white, purple veined penis with almost translucent cock skin covering its fat girth. He is not, judging from the look on his face. "The Americans and their need to mutilate children's penises. Unbelievable.
Well, the Master has granted me some small healing privileges. This procedure is painful but effective."
He hands me red ball gag and says, "Put this on. You must not scream. Your screams, like your words, are now only for the Master." As I put on the gag he removes a small black tool box from under the altar and takes a scalpel from it. "I will make two cuts on your penis, above and below the scar from your circumcision. Try to enjoy the pain. It will be good practice for your time with the Master." As his instrument navigates the circumference of my erect penis a wave of burning pain follows it, as it does with his promised second pass. I shriek silently as he frees a circle of cock skin. He removes the flap with two pair of forceps and tosses it into the vapors rising from the font. My cock is bleeding, its white inner sheath exposed, the skin edges raw and pulling gradually apart. He stands me up and walks me to the font, tears running down my face, blood down my legs and onto the stone floor. He pushes my groin against the font and my cock into the steaming liquid in it. "If you pull away before the process is finished you will be banished and your cock will remain as you last saw it. Do not move."
I obey and the pain diminishes and is gradually replaced by a tingling like a small current of electricity. There is the feeling of things crawling on my cock, burrowing into it, chewing on the skin from the inside. I do not move. I barely breathe. I try to appreciate the diminished pain and the novel sensations taking possession of my penis. "To be honest," I think, "I kind of enjoyed the pain, as my guide suggested." I wonder if it was his suggestion or my natural proclivity for abusing my cock, experimenting with my pain threshold in various ways that accounts for this.
He hands me a towel and says, "Dry yourself with this and let us have a look at my handiwork." I do as he demands and we both examine my revised cock. The excised areas of skin have more than healed. They have come together seamlessly and covered my cockhead with luxuriant foreskin. It has become what it might have been had I not been introduced to the surgeon in my infancy. It is beautiful. I can't wait to get my hands on it. "Do not think this is for you, boy," my guide/healer says,
understanding my intent, "this repair is for the Master's pleasure, not yours. Your penis is whole now, part of the whole of you and you are his property. You and your penis will do what he requires of you." I wonder aloud, "What will he require of me? When will he require it? I understand that I am his property and I accept that, but I'd like to get on with it."
I catch myself too late. I feel a tingling on my back that vaguely reminds me of when I was a child and was stung by a jellyfish in the surf at Corpus Christi. It began as a tingle on my back and progressed within moments to agony. I screamed until my father lifted me out of the water and whispered menacingly in my ear, " It's just a jellyfish, boy. Should I give you something to really cry about?" So I endured the pain, silently screaming, as I so often did with him, learning to understand the pain he gave me as my due.
Now I clasped my hand over my mouth to stifle my screams as my back and ass seemed to burst into flame. I have vivid images of a sinister black jellyfish enveloping and stinging me head to toe and of my father's belt, folded double in his left hand, coming down again and again on my battered young torso. The Master's servant said, "As I told you earlier, you are not to speak except to the master. There are consequences."