Master of Black Magick (author, interr, fantasy), by Skorpio
Authors Note: This is a pornographic fantasy treating Black Magic and Black Domination as ultimate realities. If this is not your fetish, please continue exploring Nifty Stories for the kinds of stories that excite you, but take a moment to make a donation to keep this library of priapic prose available to one and all. Thank you.
PART ONE:
THE LONG, HARD VIGIL
Dusk gathered like gray webs spun by unseen spiders as Xavier Moorcock strode swiftly through the narrow streets of the old city. He was a strikingly handsome man with jet black twists, penetrating eyes of polished onyx, and ample lips set with grave concern. Clad entirely in black: entirely in black: leather pants, vest, silk shirt. A black lambskin duster fluttered in the gust of his speed. His boots made no sound on the pavement , nor did anyone take notice of his presence, for a simple incantation in an ancient African tongue rendered the Master of Black Magick invisible and unheard.
Thus he often walked among ordinary folk, undetected that he might observe their lives without drawing attention to himself. He was known as Master X, Magister of the Unknown, seventh son of a seventh son, Supreme Adept in the secret rites of Heka or Nubian Sorcery, High Priest of Thoth, Keeper of the Sacred Scrolls, and sworn Adversary of those sinister forces which have beset the race of humanity from time immemorial.
Home was an old Italianate brownstone with tall shuttered windows at the end of a cul-de-sac. Master X was greeted at once in the drawing room by his drones, three shirtless white males in red harem pants and black slippers. The black leather Collars of Thrall around their necks were stitched with magical sigils in gold and silver thread compelling complete and total submission. It was a necessary precaution even with the most willing slave.
Moorcock was a benevolent master. Whereas most sorcerers of his order keep their servants for life or until they outlive their usefulness, Master X released his back into the world to go on with their lives after seven years of servitude. Their minds were wiped of any memory of that entire time. It was regrettable these healthy, handsome men had to lose seven years of their youth, but that could not be helped. Too much was at stake. A Master of Black Magick requires servants, and they most be under his complete control.
James attended to his Master, lifting off the duster and hanging it in the closet without being told. His brown crew cut defined an oval face with puppy dog eyes and thick eyebrows. Six and a half years ago, James was a medalist in college gymnastics and on the Dean's List when Moorcock put him under a hypnotic trance and buckled the Collar of Thrall in place. Loath was Moorcock to let this one go, for James was one of those exceptional boys who probably did not need the Collar of Thrall. James truly longed to submit his entire life to the Master of Black Magick. Subservience was bliss.
"Will there be anything else, Sir?" James inquired in a soft voice, his big brown eyes respectfully downcast, the former athlete and scholar with golden opportunities before him who had come to truly believe that he was born for this purpose, to be owned by a Superior Man.
For a second he wished the Master had never told him that the day of his departure was drawing near, albeit many months away. It was torture. Then he immediately regretted his foolish wish. If the Master felt he needed or deserved to be tortured, then James welcomed it, the suffering, the anguish, the dread of knowing his implacable fate. He surrendered to his Master's will with the selfless fatalism only a slave worthy of the name can know.
James was correct about Moorcock inflicting torture for a purpose. It amused him. Although Moorcock often developed feelings of affection for his slaves, they were what they were, after all. Even he was not above enjoying the influx of personal power one receives when humiliating an inferior as their dignity, will, and spirit crumble. What James could not know, nor guess, was that Master X had decided to make James an exception, retaining his obedient servitude indefinitely.
"Yes, James," Moorcock uttered scornfully, as if to say, "Of course there will be something else, you servile puppet. There will always be something else!"
Moorcock did not want James to think he was special in any way when he learned that he was to be spared a fate worse than death.. Maybe he would extend James' servitude day by day, keeping the slave in a state of never ending suspense. It did not seem possible James could improve as a slave, but the constant desperate need to exceed might yet achieve that end. In any case, it would be an interesting experiment.
"You and Brandon accompany me to my sanctum sanctorum," declared the Master. "Tobias, no dinner tonight, just bring me bread and wine, for the forces of evil are abroad, and I have much to do."
"Yes, Sir," Tobias bowed. He was the youngest and most recent addition to the household, still in his first year of servitude. Golden locks swept his angelic, alabaster forehead. Bee-stung, pinkish lips were pouty from providing hours of attention to the Master's needs.
Tobias alone of the three slaves was unshaved from the neck on down. His pits flashed bright blond curls, and a furry yellow trail ran from his navel disappearing beneath the harem pants. Moorcock took an instant liking to Tobias the first time he spotted him, the most radiantly beautiful whiteboy he had ever seen. He seemed to have an inner glow that shone through his skin.
Moorcock watched Tobias leave, appreciating the towhead's plump posterior as if for the first time. He had not yet taken this one in that manner, preferring James and Brandon when it came to that. It was Tobias's pretty, almost feminine mouth, that Moorcock preferred. He would be taken from behind one day, but this was not the time. Moorcock departed from the drawing room with James and Brandon always several steps behind.
In his high-ceilinged sanctum, walled with leather bound books, hung with portraits and carven masks, illumined by candlelight, scented with spiraling fumes, the Master of Black Magick commanded sternly: "Attend me."
He stood with arms outstretched as James and Brandon worked efficiently to remove and fold their Master's every garment with abject reverence. Xavier Moorcock stood naked, a paragon of masculine perfection. Well over six feet with broad shoulders, muscular arms, deep chest and slender waist. His dark, thick, veined, foreskinned member dangled over a low-hanging hairless scrotum bulging with testicles like heavy purple plums.
No slave was permitted to gaze upon their Master's loins without permission lest they were overcome with a feverish urge to impale themselves upon that ebon phallus. If not for the Collar of Thrall, they would grovel like bitches in heat for penetration. Yet the Collar merely held them in check, helpless and obedient. It could not free them of their craving. That was best unleashed when Moorcock required sexual release.
Those occasions came often enough, for Moorcock's libido was many times stronger than any slave's. That was why he always kept three in thrall. No one slaveboy could possibly satisfy a Master. As a True Man, Moorcock preferred females for carnal purposes, but that alternative was denied to him by Melanique Maljardin, the Haitian sorceress who won his heart.
Her magnificent portrait dominated the room. A Caribbean beauty with flashing dark eyes and mocking smile, luxurious midnight curls like a nebulous halo, silver earrings, necklace of pearls, draped in white to display her voluptuous golden-brown cleavage.
The Master of Black Magick met his Obeah Queen four times a year on the High Holy Days to consummate their eternal love with volcanic, stormy, elemental passion. Their vigorous lovemaking, it was said, caused the earth to tremble and ocean waves to rise while lightning seared the sky.
Melanique asked Xavier to abstain from female slaves lest he use them for sexual relief. Her request was not from jealousy, but concern for the inherent dignity of all women not to be used as playthings. White males, on the other hand, did not matter. Xavier was free to use them by any means necessary.
Careful not to look upon his Master's nudity, James swathed him in a cloak of many colors. Black Magick works best when naked. Sky-clad the pagan nature worshippers call it. Only the Mantle of Hatshepsut woven on her loom in the deeps of time could be worn without blocking the flow of life force magick.
"Fetch the purple candles of Isis and the Crux Ansata," said Master X, putting all thoughts of Melanique aside. "Did I not say this very morning as you drew my bath that I was filled with foreboding?"
"Yes, you did, Sir," said James, while Brandon scurried about his task.
"All day long I have sensed something like a shadow over the city," Master X went on, more or less talking to himself. He did not expect his slaves to comprehend his words.
"What do you think it is, Sir?" asked James, eager to show that he was paying attention. His brown eyes so desperately yearned to please, he wanted so badly to be of use, to be used. It was almost touching.
"I think it may be my old nemesis, Ebonn Blackthorne, up to his usual tricks," said the Master. "I thought we had an understanding. He was not to disturb the restless dead, else I challenge him to a mystic duel which he cannot hope to win. He knows my power is greater than his."
"That sounds really bad, Sir," gasped Brandon, whose curly red locks, freckled face, and Louisiana drawl brought to mind Tom Sawyer in his mid-twenties. He handed Master X the golden ankh, and placed a candelabrum with seven unlit tapers on a table in the center of the room.
Brandon had been a surly, obnoxious redneck before Master X collared him. Gingers were bad luck, but Moorcock wanted to teach him a lesson in humility. He probably would not keep Brandon for the full seven years, and upon release would instill an insatiable compulsion for sucking black cock.
"You and James stand by," Master X directed. "Watch over this mortal shell, safeguard it while I journey to the Astral Plane."
Draped in the cloak, the mage sat in an ornately carved chair. With a simple mystic gesture, he caused the tall purple candles to ignite. Lambent, flickering light played across his face. He sat pharaoh-like, palms upon his knees, back erect, a statue of black marble, eyes unblinking, gazing into the void. Immobile, frozen, ageless, transfigured, serene. In his lap was the Crux Ansata.
Beyond the World of Appearances, sideways through Time, past phantasmagorical dimensions where cosmic entities bubbled and congealed to the music of unimaginable melodies, travelled the Master's astral body until he reached the Coign of Celestial Vantage. From that High Sphere he was able to look back down upon the world with transcendental vision. What he beheld was far worse than he had feared.
Throughout the entire city recently deceased white males were awakening in funeral homes, rising and thirsting for sperm, in the grip of some unknown, relentless force. Thirteen corpses in all, given a semblance of life, set loose with undead strength to overpower men of color and suck the nectar from their cocks. Who could be responsible for this wizardry. It was the kind of sadistic, perverse villainy Ebonn Blackthorne would conceive, but not even he possessed this kind of dreadful magick. One would have to call upon the jackal-headed god Anubis, which would have would grave consequences indeed.
Dark clouds began to swirl over the city. Shapes of shadow spun and funneled like a twisting wormhole with the face of a man at its center. An all too familiar visage. There was no mistaking that shaved brown pate, eyes glowing like coals, lips curled in a permanent sneer, the forked black goatee. Malice and contempt were writ upon his brow. None other than the necromancer Ebonn Blackthorn!
In the very next instant, Moorcock's astral body was suddenly expelled from the sidereal plane of the multiverse, pulled back into his physical form on earth. With a jolt, he woke from his state of trance, onyx eyes ablaze, hands gripping the arms of the chair. James and Brandon immediately sprang toward him with concern, ears pricked for even the softest command.
"At ease," said the Mage, mastering his emotions as he let out a sigh. "Nothing more can be done tonight. Nonetheless, I must remain vigilant until dawn. Whatever the source of Blackthorn's newfound power, he must act at night for the power of Ra suffers supernatural evil only in his absence, after he sets in the west to journey through the underworld. The warlock may strike tonight. Therefore, must I remain awake until dawn. Then my work truly begins for I must find the resting places of these undead fiends and dispatch them with a wooden stake through the heart."
Tobias appeared with a loaf of fresh-baked bread on a silver tray and a bottle of red vintage. Before exiting the room, he performed a ceremonious bow, almost a curtsy really, because he had been commanded to make a habit of it. Moorcock liked bringing out the feminine in Tobias. The slave was masculine enough in manner and appearance, and he was well-built, having wrestled throughout high school, and he alone was permitted hair below the neck. But his golden blond dazzling glow, those innocent blue eyes, the unblemished white skin, and especially his pouty lips tempted Moorcock to work some seriously wicked Black Magick.
There was a spell in the Books of Thoth which Moorcock could use to transform Tobias into a young woman, but that would certainly betray the promise he made to Melanique, which was unthinkable. For even a Black Magick Master is beholden to his True Soul Mate. As far as Tobias was concerned, there was no harm in feminizing him a little, Moorcock decided. He would make the slaveboy act like a girl but retain enough of his own personality to be confused and embarrassed by his behavior. The Collar of Thrall instilled obedience. Humiliation would bring shame and self-loathing to gnaw away at Tobias's fragile pride from the inside out, until he was ready to be remade into a more perfected slave.
James and Brandon stood to the side like sentinels while their Master dipped bread into the wine, silently planning his next move. At last Moorcock spoke:
"We have a long night ahead of us. I dare not rest until Blackthorn is stopped. There is no telling what other depravities that devious mind of his has conjured. His power truly seems to have grown which I do not understand. Blackthorne never had full access to Real Black Magick. Mostly he cast minor spells and tricked with illusions. You cannot tell by looking at him, but he is in fact part caucasian, an octoroon, I believe. Or whatever it is called when both parents are mulatto. I often wonder if that accounts for his inner corruption and the lust for magick he does not naturally possess. It cannot be, for I know men of mixed race with African souls who are True Masters. I have even known white men whose exemplary intelligence, good will, and noble character were worthy of my respect. They made good slaves. Yet truly a man's soul is not defined by the color of his skin."
"Listen to me," Moorcock chuckled softly. "Babbling to myself to stave off weariness. For I know these slaves did not comprehend a single word I spoke. I require a distraction if I am to remain awake this night. And I have thought of a way which I should have thought of sooner." He clapped his hands. "James and Brandon, you will entertain me. Take off all your clothes!"
The slaveboys obeyed at once, removing identical slippers, pulling off their identical pants, and stepping out of identical white jockstraps. They stood side by side wearing only their Collars of Thrall. James was taller by a few inches. His long-limbed, rangy physique had nicely rounded delts, pecs, and biceps. Brandon was compact, sturdier, stronger, with a thick hard waist, well developed quadriceps, and somewhat square, brawny buttocks. Both had sculpted Adonis belts and small shriveled members, small testicles, like those Greek statues of athletes.
"Brandon, get on your knees in front of James," Moorcock commanded. "Take his penis into your mouth and get it hard. Use your lips, tongue, and throat to bring your slave brother to orgasm. I know you don't like sucking cock. You may continue having those feelings, but you will not be able to stop sucking James's cock until you swallow his sperm. James, as for you, I want you to be forceful with Brandon. Use his mouth the way that I use yours. You are not just getting a blowjob. You are fucking his throat like it's a cunt. Now, both of you: Get busy!"
Xavier lounged back in his throne-like chair, gangster-lean, sipping wine and smiling so that his ivory teeth gleamed in the candlelight. He enjoyed these spectacles. Ordinary men must content themselves with the internet when they feel the need of porn. A Master of Black Magick makes it happen.
Brandon was a surprisingly skillful cocksucker despite fuming on the inside, hating it, but helpless to stop. James almost looked like he was smirking as he gripped Brandon's head with both hands to repeatedly thrust his cock down Brandon's throat. Slurping, sloppy sounds came from Brandon. Moaning and grunting like a pig from James as his pink prick quivered with exquisite sensations denied to him for longer than he could remember.
To see them now, one would never guess that James and Brandon once lived normal lives. They were popular with girls, excelled in sports and academics, and basked in the limelight of privilege. Their brilliant futures were guaranteed. They would marry, make money, have children. But that never happened. To facilitate their abrupt disappearance, signed letters to parents and friends were left behind: "I have always known that I am gay, and now I have met the man I want to spend the rest of my life with. We're going to own an antique store in Vermont, but don't look for me. I don't want to be found. Please just let me be happy for once."
Although Brandon tried to resent having a cock in his mouth, he was deriving some pleasure from it. That was hard to admit, but he knew it was true. He actually kind of liked being fucked in the mouth, being used by a man. Deep down, beneath all the bluster and braggadocio, this strutting redneck had an innate capacity for sucking cock. All Master X had to do was bring it out.
James closed his eyes while Brandon did his below job. He tried to imagine it was a girl on her knees because that always excited him, but when he opened his eyes and once again saw Brandon, it made him even hornier. James felt the rush of being in a position of sexual dominance, having his cock serviced by a man on his knees. That made James feel very smug and virile for a moment, but it proved more than he could manage. James knew he was not supposed to feel that way. He had no right pretending to be a man no matter how could the sensation.
"Ejaculate NOW," commanded Moorcock, making a mystical gesture to ensure his mastery over their bodies was absolute. Immediately, James filled Brandon's mouth with salty sperm, as Brandon shot a load that arced and landed on the hardwood floor. Their orgasms were the most intense they had ever known. Maybe it was due to going so long without, or maybe the Master's magick was the cause. For an instant their mind-blowing orgasmic bliss cancelled out the efficacy of their Collars, restoring their free will; and then they were slaves again.
If Moorcock wished, he could make them have orgasms over and over again until it became a torment that drove them mad. But he would never do such a thing. Probing their thoughts and feelings provided sufficient amusement. Lesser men are aroused by the nakedness of body parts and sexual activity. But a Master's libido is stirred by the domination of lesser minds and weaker wills. He plays with their minds. He puts them in touch with the deepest, darkest current of their being. Once awakened, the need to surrender, submit, and obey can never be silenced.
"Clean that mess up," Moorcock ordered, pointing the sperm which James shot onto the floor. "Use your tongues!"
On their hands and knees like hounds, James and Brandon lapped up every drop of semen from the polished, hardwood floor. When they finished, they looked up and froze in awe. The Master had cast off the many-colored Mantle of Hatshepsut. He stood hands on hips in naked splendor, a paragon of Nubian manhood, hung like Apis the Sacred Bull.
The slaves dared not utter a word, yet their eyes squealed with sudden inexorable lust and their lips quivered with longing. The rigidity of their muscular bodies softened, melting like wax in the blazing heat of their Black Master's magnificent body. It is said by some scholars that a craving for Black Cock was bred into the white race by African sorcerers over seventy thousand years ago. In any case, James and Brandon could not help themselves.
"Patience, little ones," said Master X, holding up his hand. "You will both sip tonight from the Fountain of Life. It will help to pass the wee hours which lay ahead."
James and Brandon kneeled spellbound. The dull, stupefied look in their eyes was sufficient sign of enchantment, yet the flame of lust for their Master's Black Cock flickered in their eyes.
Xavier went on:
"James, get on your hands and knees. I want you to worship me with your mouth and throat. Brandon, while James is busy, I want you to fuck him from behind! Remember how aggressive he got with you? Get twice as rough. While you're fucking James, hard as you can, tell him to suck your Master's Black Dick. Egg him on! "
The two slaves enacted the scene exactly as commanded. James took his master's massive black phallus into his mouth and started sucking, deeper with every plunge. About the same time, Brandon drove his short, thick, hard white cock into the crevice between James' soft, white, marshmallow buttocks.
"Suck the Master's dick, cocksucker!" hollered Brandon, as he thrust with force. He much preferred fucking to giving head. Moorcock loomed arms akimbo, enjoying the wet warmth of James' mouth and throat. It did not matter whether the orifice belonged to a male or female.
"Suck that black dick!" Brandon urged again. "That's the Master, cocksucker! He deserves the best. Suck him good!"
Overcome by the wild intensity, screwing James in the ass, urging James to suck their Master's Cock, Brandon could not hold back. His nuts exploded. He ejaculated inside James, and fell back from the recoil.
This did not deter James from continuing to give head. He felt the final thrust, the explosion in his guts, but he was so much into the length and circumference of the hard, ebony, irresistible phallus deep within his throat that nothing else mattered.
Moorcock permitted James to service him for several minutes more before ordering him to stop. A new diversion occurred to the Master. With a simple mental summons, Moorcock called upon Tobias in the kitchen to join them in the sanctum sanctorum.
Moments later, Tobias appeared in the arched doorway, shirtless, clad in red harem pants and black slippers, and the Collar of Thrall.
"How may I serve you, Master?"
"You may serve by getting out of your clothes. Can you not see with your own eyes that we are all naked here?"
"N-no, Sir," stammered Tobias, uncertainly. "I mean, y-yes Sir."
Taking in the vision of his master naked, Tobias quickly shed his clothes.
"Come to me," Moorcock beckoned, "that I may quench your thirst."
Kneeling, Tobias wrapped his ruddy, puffy lips around the bulbous helmet of his Master's ebony scepter. The whiteboy's mind was in such a daze, he had no idea what was coming next. Hot piss flowed into Tobias's mouth, using him like a urinal. He gulped and swallowed, gulped and swallowed, drinking the golden nectar, spilling not a single drop.
"Drink up, little one," said Moorcock. "I've been saving it for you. I wanted to reward you for your beauty -- your extraordinary beauty that puzzles me no end. Drink from the fountain of truth."
When his bladder was drained, Moorcock order the towhead to get down on his hands and knees. He told James to insert his thin stiff white penis between Tobias's lips. Then, Moorcock took Tobias from behind with a sharp, deep, penetrating thrust. It was fortunate for Tobias that a basic enchantment ensured that every slave's rectum was magically lubricated at all times.
If Tobias's mouth were not occupied with James's erection, he would have cried out in delirious joy and anguish, feeling his Master deep inside, pounding away with long, measured strokes. Moorcock took his time, drilling the slave's soft, plump white ass, feeling his magick grow.
The longer Moorcock fucked, the fiercer his life force blazed. It was like recharging a battery. His aura shone. He had the supernatural glow, magickal energy like lambent light illuminating his entire body. When at last Moorcock could hold back no longer, his sperm exploded inside Tobias's bowels, burst after burst of raw life force making Tobias see fireworks, sending him into ecstasy.
Casting Tobias aside, Moorcock called upon James. For a Master of Black Magick, a single fuck could never be sufficient. Indeed, this was true for most of Nubian descent, not just practitioners of Heka. Fucking James increased Moorcock's life force magick, making the black-gold glow of his body emanate even brighter.
The Windsor clock chimed six as Xavier finished fucking. Brandon's hole was the last. Moorcock filled that redneck with a load of African sperm no less copious than Tobias or James received. The Master's semen was like a powerful narcotic drug, sending all three into unconsciousness. The look of contentment on their faces was comical. They could have passed for simpering inebriates.
Gray dawn peeped through the shuttered windows. Somewhere in the old city, a cock was crowing. The long night's vigil was over at last. Now, it was time for the Master to act.
Moorcock dressed himself. He could have roused his slaveboys into service with a command, but decided to let them rest. They earned that much, he deemed. Soon enough they would be called upon to repeat this performance. The sexual needs of a Black Master never end.
The Master of Black Magick filled a rucksack with the tools he required: a sturdy mallet, wooden stakes, vials of holy water, and a small golden ankh. A simple locator spell would guide him to the crypts and cellars where the undead cocksuckers slept during the day. Dispatching them should be a simple task, yet Moorcock was wise enough to expect the unexpected. Doubtlessly the warlock Ebonn Blackthorn would have other tricks up his sleeve.
The forces of Evil must be withstood.
THE END