And when she awoke…
Was that the door she heard clicking closed in the dark?
No. It was just the heater.
Winter twilight shone mutely in her window. Flakes of snow burst to melt upon each impact to the panes.
Again, she’d kicked all the bedcovers off and found herself naked and shiny in her own sweat, and the faintest irritation pawed at her stomach.
When she touched her sex, she knew she’d really come; the telltale sensitivity snapped her legs closed like a trap. She leaned up in the dark, feeling plundered, squashed by all the desires that had been so expertly milked from her.
Sleeping again seemed impossible. Would the dream-figure reappear? The idea titillated her, yet at the same time felt terrifying. Surely she couldn’t go through that again; though her desire lately never seemed to abate, there was nothing left now for it to give up. Empty gas tank, she thought, and slid her hand off the damp mount of her pubis.
She flicked on the bedside lamp, looked around. On the antique night table lay the stack of paperback romances by bestselling Melinda Pryce. Vera’d barely cracked them, not because they weren’t well-written, but because they reminded her of all the things she didn’t have in her own life. Beneath them, though, lay the hardback tome. The Complete Compendium of Demons by Richard Long. She’d bought it for Donna but had forgotten to give it to her. Vera slid the book out, flipped idly through it. It was like a dictionary of demonic entities, none of which she’d heard save for Baalzephon, which she remembered from some distant mythology class. And the Ardat-Lil, a ghostly female sex addict from pre-Druidic lore, said to become incarnate by the ritual sacrifice and feasting upon of male genitalia. Names, lithographs, medieval sketches, etc. mystified her as she turned more glossy-stock pages…
Then her eyes snagged upon a single entry.
Her disbelief bloomed.
The entry, in the M’s, read as such:
MAGWYTH.
««—»»
“Come on,” Donna whispered. “Like that.”
Her request resulted in a sensation akin to being gently gutted. Oh, God, that feels good, she thought in excruciating slowness. She didn’t even know exactly what was being done, and she didn’t care. Each night her dreams entreated her to the most robust pleasures, attentions she had never imagined, climaxes the likes of which she had never even conceived. It’s just a dream, she thought. So why should she feel guilty? How could she be cheating on Dan B.? It was just her subconscious. Just dreams.
“It’s just a dream,” she muttered.
She looked down, and to her astonishment, a mouth peeled her lace panties off her groin, then chewed them, then swallowed them. Another, hotter mouth sucked her toes. Next, she was sucking something herself: a penis with a drape of foreskin so abundant it hung off the glans like a long snout. Two more women lay to either side, moaning bliss as they were penetrated by hideous dream-shapes. That’s why Donna knew this was a dream. Instances such as this couldn’t possibly happen in reality, nor could such figures exist. The darkness, conjoined with her drunken haze, obscured the details. But she could make out enough: the figures were only caricatures of men, with every extremity distorted to extremes. Probing fingers seemed a foot long, and so did darkened faces. Not to mention the penises—so many of them!—thrust before her eager mouth. Finally she squinted down and realized the harbinger of her bliss: one figure gently turned an entire fist back and forth in the vault of her sex, whilst tending her clitoris with a tongue like a wet flap of steak.
A bald woman grinned down at her. “Join in!” Donna pleaded as yet another orgasm quaked. Her hand reached out.
“Can’t,” the woman regretted. Her breasts jutted firmly as melons, with dark-pink nipples. Her pubis shined hairless in the crackling candlelight. Then a man, equally hairless, joined the woman’s side and put an comradely arm about the woman’s shoulder…
It was Kyle!
His grin radiated like a knife-flash. Erect genitals bobbed as he leaned further to explain: “We’d love to join in, Donna, but we can’t.”
“We’re busy,” added the grinning bald woman.
And Kyle: “We’ve got to get dinner ready.”
What they said made no sense. Donna, though, didn’t care. She felt inclined to concentrate on her lust. Huge penises worked in and out of both of her lower entries, while a third plowed so far down her throat she thought sure it was in her belly. The exploding flood of warmth made her think further, then the slackening member was extracted only to be replaced by another.
In the distance, she noted more figures—inhumanly large eyes widened upon the spectacle of the low bed. They were…
Eating, Donna realized.
The bald man and woman parted, bringing in trays of steaming kabobs, chunky soups, filets of seasoned meats. Seductive aromas wafted in the air. Rich sauces steamed above garnished, silver-plattered helpings.
Yet the main helping seemed to be Donna.
It’s only a dream, she consoled herself.
Next, a penis large as a typewriter platen eased into her sex; a greased fist popped into her rectum. Donna’s orgasms began to beat her to a pulp. Two long fingers stretched her mouth wide as yet another penis dropped strings of semen down her outstretched tongue.
Stringent liquor was poured next into her throat. Her desires rekindled; her breasts swelled in the same way ripe fruits burst to release their gush of seeds. More mouths, a veritable succession of them, lined up to suck her toes, her nipples and navel, her clitoris which ached as though it had been squeezed by a pair of pliers…
“It’s just a dream,” she whispered aloud.
Kyle’s bald head returned to Donna’s field of vision. An amethyst jewel hung from a silver chain about his neck, and when the bald woman joined Kyle, a similar stone glittered like a purple eye sunk into her navel.
“It’s just a dream!” Donna shrieked in unison with the next string of climaxes.
Kyle grinned above her.
“Hey, baby,” he said, “I hate to tell you this, but this ain’t no dream.”
— | — | —
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
MAGWYTH: A unique and immortal factotum, also known as The Servant of Demons. A second-generational demon himself, Magwyth is reported to be the chief purveyor of pleasures for the better-regarded occupants of the abyss. Though God rules in heaven, certainly Satan rules in hell, and his favorites he allows, whenever possible, the utmost liberties. Magwyth, in other words, has been trusted since time immemorial to serve his master’s favorites with whatever pleasures they desire, and at the expense, of course, of the less smiled-upon tenants of the netherworld—a luciferic pimp, in other words.
Vera squinted at the words, faintly amused. Naturally the name Magwyth had flagged her attention. A luciferic pimp, she repeated. The whole thing was just a coincidence…