The Rituals of Thelema Ch. 03
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I Derwent Dashwood, 23th Baron le Despencer by line, retired Adjutant General, ranking member of Brooks Gentleman’s Club and undisputed High Priest of the latest reincarnation of the Hellfire Club raise my arms and am unquestioningly awarded silence. Surveying the half-moon gathering of now naked acolytes it is difficult to remember that but a few minutes ago the room had been a noisy dining area with all the accompanying tables, chairs and accoutrement. The bodies before me are of no particular beauty, in fact many bear the obvious signs of bad practice and ill-use. The Magical Arts attract all denominations, races, both the advantaged and the oppressed. They come for a multitude of reasons, for power, to be included, simply for sexual pleasure, but all possess one of two common threads the need to control or to be manipulated. Some acolytes see themselves as powerful, many simply beg to be used and abused, to me all are building blocks that serve a united purpose, simply steps in my staircase to ascendency.
Elizabeth stirs behind me. She is still laying on the carving trolley but had been transformed by the preceding events to the very vessel I required. Her face glows with that look that only truly deep rigorous spiritual and physical experience can arouse. Her eyes are glazed, not from the drugs of her past but by the sheer volume perfectly pulse quickening penetrations the room had so recently granted her. Breasts, stomach, face, all are covered in a seeming river of seminal outpouring, her thighs run with the lashings of a dozen female tongues that had fought to indulge her cunt with ecstatic lingual joys. Her labia and ass are swollen and sore, the flesh showing inflamed rouge in the flickering candle light. A silver chalice containing musty tainted bread has been positioned on her belly in preparation for its traditional part as the body of the host, whilst her gaped and dripping orifices will more than adequately supply the required fluidity. Each of Elizabeth’s hands grip a black candle riven from freshly acquisitioned cadaver wax, thick and long as a goodly proportioned phallus their flames trembling in unison with her beating heart.
Ten years educated in a Public School, five long years hard study in a seminary, the power and influence to take the collar without question, the perseverance to endure, the patience to accumulate knowledge, all have but one logical fruition, a Satanic priest. Never defrocked, always honored, still acceptable to Church hierarchy whilst able to dredge the depths of lore and collected wisdom. The greatest collection of magical literature resides in the Vatican, the second largest in the British Museum. I have perused the Rome’s collection but I have my own key to the door of the London black library.
The Black Mass has no specific framework except to say it mimics, presents a caricature of the Roman Mass or Catholic Communion. I had always a liking for the Latin form, not because of any conservative trait but simply for its power and ability to awe. To boldly chant the words and phrases and witness the effect upon the partially understanding congregation was the essence of superiority but now with no one comprehending the slightest intoned Roman phrase one might as well spew mumbo jumbo. English is my choice now, still sufficiently literary and poetic, still resonating power and majesty, but also most if not all witnesses can follow, with the accepted difficulties of stupidity or stupefaction. Always in practice one should cut to the chase. The majority are present to fuck and abuse each other with impunity, standing for long periods listing to theatrics however melodramatically entertaining is a poor substitute for a good old Tiberian orgy. Trampling and spitting on crosses are always crowd pleasers and the general denial of Christianity in all its forms a good basis. Most important however is the moment of actual personal experience when the acolyte gets to taste the satanic flesh and blood in the form of ergot invested bread soaked in fresh garnered human bodily discharge and thereafter subjugate themselves before, or rather behind the power they seek to invest.
“For he so loved the world that putting aside heavenly reason he fell from grace and came to dwell amongst his people.”
The evocation begins the acolytes become still, ceasing their nervous fidgeting, their absent minded masturbations and caste their eyes down to the floor in genuflection.
“He gifts us the bread of life that we may understand true wisdom and power.”
After each phrase I pause just long enough for their blood to boil a little, their appetites heighten as they see the moment of benediction approach. Silence is expected, but even in this hush of reverence the sound of unforced bodily expulsions permeates the atmosphere.
“This is living flesh and blood, rent from the innocent, infected and decayed by the virulent and whomever partakes is joined in one unholy union eternal.”
A female accolade faints, collapsing to the floor to lay in a puddle halkalı escort of her own piss and ejaculate, her body continuing to writhe in orgasmic frenzy. No one notices but me and I smile.
“Unite in me and bear the fruit of my loins, I am the phallus and you are the womb, be the disciples that carry my seed that will in turn impregnate the world in my glory.”
I feel the force of their collective submission, taste the pungency of depravity and hunger for carnal expression. This is the power I seek, absorbing the life force and draining their will for anything but blind obedience. The magician’s power comes not from some ethereal plain but rather from the very belief that others bestow upon him spiritually and psychologically. The Master takes His strength from submissive souls and chains them with their own desires to follow His tenants alone unquestioned.
“We receive this gift in remembrance of those maliciously and unjustly caste down by a cruel and uncaring despot simply for the awareness of true nature and worth, thereby pledging our unending duty and devotion to their cause.”
The semi-circle of acolytes begin to form into a single line in preparation to approach and accept benediction. I am always amused by their eagerness to somehow amplify their perceived importance by the position they accomplish in the queue. Does it matter who is first or last to eat and drink foulness and orally worship my waiting asshole?
“Most heinous Beelzebub we offer up our sins to thee in thought word and deed; by what we have done, in that we have left undone; rejoicing in carnality with our whole heart; seducing our neighbors and abusing ourselves; we promise to continue endless coercion till all are willingly subjugated to your glory; strengthen our erections, moisten our orifices, all in the worship of your name.”
Each acolyte in turn kneels and waits as I push a rancid morsel of bread deep into Elizabeth’s soaked and tattered cunt, then happily savors and swallows the host as I, place my hand upon their head and pronounce the blessing.
“Receive the flesh and blood of our master and accept his everlasting will.”
Turning after each blessing I bend at the waist, lift my gown and allow the acolyte to tongue my ass. Some are nervous and touch timidly, others more depraved dip deep into the dark recess and smack their lips as if tasting priceless wine. This, the penultimate part of the ceremony is my favorite. To be felched by a line of submissives is pleasant enough, when their number includes aristocracy, politicians, judges, high officials and self-assured ladies its meaningfulness and erotic quality improves substantially.
The last mouth having consumed spoiled vital, the last tongue having delved my bowel, now all are back to semicircular position and kneeling await their ultimate wish. The unfortunate who fainted in preemptive ecstasy has been removed from the floor and is now semi consciously sitting in a dark corner babbling for carnal use by any who might listen. I allow my eyes to wander over the bowed forms, sucking the last portion of remaining independence they might possess into my ever hungry malevolent heart.
“Beelzebub, we praise you and give you praise and thanks for this communion of flesh and blood, we pledge our continued worship, weakness and sin for your ever greater glory.”
Turning I ascend the small stage behind Elizabeth’s reclining and ever open form and seat myself upon the velveteen cushioned throne. The rooms atmosphere has reached fever pitch, the force of expectation seems to dim the flickering candle light almost to the point of extinguishment. I wait, letting lust mount, depravity fester, watching bodies start to quiver and shake in pent physical arousal. The odor of unbridled sexual frenzy invades my nostrils, the same fetid stench that meets the senses on entrance to a breeding pen busy with rutting animals. Hands begin to roam across their own bodies, fingers delving into their owner’s cunts, hands grasping and pulling at their owned cocks like misbehaving monkeys in a zoological gardens cage. A few daring acolytes began to surreptitiously touch their neighbors, sliding hands beneath adjacent ass cheeks to fondle labia or ball sac, maybe even bending low to taste the throbbing Satan orifice they so desire to penetrate with phallus or plunging dildo. Still I wait, savoring this unspoken cry for release from bonded humanity to descend to rabid satyrs of pure carnality.
Michel Fabeaux is ever and always my architect. The essence of a great manservant is not to be responsive but to have that imperceptible quality of prescience. My boredom raised its chevron to his foresight long before its specter had even partially crept into my cognizance. With the quiet and controlled discipline of a theatrical transformation scene the nature of the space before me meta-morphs from alter bearing temple to a Romanesque libertine folly with all necessary furnishing and devices, including positioned centrally ikitelli escort a rather wonderfully inspiring hexagonal day bed in the shape of a coffin. Having completed their task the service staff, now devoid of their costumes and bodies shining in oily perfumed perfection return to the edges of the room joined by the always eager oral slaves whom immediately continue to hone their lingual arts in anticipation of their deserving participation in the bacchanals
I feel a strange elation holding all at bay, that wondrous power that the sprint official must joyfully quaff as he holds the runners in set position just a few seconds longer. Limbs begin to tremble, shoulders round, breath comes hard and fast in pent expectation. The space between Elizabeth and the tormented acolytes is claimed by a coven of twelve male specimens of Grecian perfection, their manhood trapped in curved and constricting golden cock cages, led by an Amazonian queen, played by my own delicious maidservant Cecile glistening from head to toe in gilt sparkle and wearing nothing but an artfully constructed phallus held in place by golden straps. Cecile reclines on the macabre coffin bed, her arms crossing theatrically across her hard nippled breasts, the phallus curved and wickedly pointed refracting reflected light in all directions as if a twinkling star.
The male members of the coven begin to circle Cecile’s prone form spinning and gesticulating as those in a deep dervish like trance whilst chanting random but electrifying lines from the ceremony of L’Air Epais. The rotations slowly built towards an impossibly exultant finale, the watching acolytes panting and pawing at themselves and each other in rapturous congruity. The crescendo reaches melt down as the last Apollo surviving graceless fall to prostrated exhaustion proves his worth to assume the next level of understanding to all who rapturously witness the trial.
Four masked Goliaths, oiled of muscle and statuesque of build step forward to lift the victor high into the air by arm and leg and position him squarely over the awaiting phallic implement of despoiling and eventual defining penetration. Slowly he is lowered, body at first relaxed but gaining nervous rigidity as juncture nears, till the single purposed tip of the missile is pressed hard against the tightly constricting target. Rotated deliciously slowly, lowered almost imperceptibly the cylinder receives its piston millimeter by penetrating millimeter. Only when the hard receiving buttocks are lying fast against the giving loins does the Goliaths circling cease. Now the other less fortunate Apollos come into action, their hands and mouths working on the lucky number twelve till his impaled torso trembles and dances in the staccato motions of a marionette whose strings have fallen under the control of demented puppet master.
The semi-circle of Acolytes creeps forward as a wave of carnal lust crashes over their collective will. Eyes glued upon the twitching mouth of the volcano before them they writhe like serpents upon their bellies, their gaped orifices leaving trails of discharge as they close demonically. The first spurt of magma shoots into the air, the stream of released ejaculate seeming to rocket to the ceiling before falling in splattering droplets to the surrounding stage. Thrice more the pulsing member exudes gradually diminishing volumes till standing empty in veined glory, a quake drained colossus. The invisible bonds holding back the mob breaks and with wild eyes, fighting and wresting for preeminence the acolytes descend on the scattered jetsam in ravenous hunger.
The orgy begins as a snake nest, a morass of writhing indistinct bodies unsure of their exact purpose except to knot externally and internally in random multiple congress. I watch from my perch, as the imperious eagle eying his prey, talons and beak sharpened and glinting wickedly in readiness for plummeting carnivorous descent. Moments to be savored, plotting course and victims, intellectually dissecting and tasting the wonders of supplicating hot and willing flesh laid bare, a canvas for the true artist to paint a raw and depraved masterpiece to rival the darkest imaginings wrought by the pen of de Sade. Slowly wild frenzy abates, pawing, gnawing dilutes from the bestial to more mundane and recognizably human copulations.
I descend from my eyrie, still adorned in the unremarkable black and concealing robes of my office, a whippy elephant hide riding crop gripped in my left hand and a thick meter long leather belt in my right. I skirt around the vipers pit, admiring form, applauding ingenuity of activity, enjoying the self-absorbed commitment of the participants, without thought or consideration beyond their own selfish physical pleasures. Occasionally I am forced to brush a hand aside that grasps my ankle, or casually swat away with the crop an overly enamored acolyte reaching in penitent submissive desire. The morass heaves and moans, diligently searching for absolution through istanbul escort climax or enlightening rapture. I stroll as in a field of poppies thigh deep in florid heads and firm unbending stalks.
My path leads slowly but steadily to the aural feast dear faithful Michel has set in tableau for my delight, a trio of maids preciously mounted face down on upended saint Andrew crosses. Their naked bodies are pink and plump, fine rubenesque assed archetypes to both use and decorate as is my want. How can I resist pinching those divine buttocks, parting the cheeks to spy the tight clasped sphincters between, not run my fingers diligently between their swollen labia to feel the slick essence of their being? I grip the leather belt in my hand, feel its strength, its weight, and casually flick the length sideways to judge reach and flexibility. Reaching down with my left hand the loop on the crop still circled around my wrist I unravel the ornate bow on my corded belt. Without hearing a sound I feel the presence of Marie and looking to my left find her sitting in perfect pose, her buttocks resting on her heels, knees wide spread, the back of her open hands resting on her knees and her head erect but perfectly inclined to a point three feet in front of her position. Her form is quite beautiful, lean alabaster skin, a slight rouge applied to her cheeks and aureola and of course a heavy gold collar with three light chains running to the rings in her nipples and clitoris. The crop I place between her perfect teeth, my belt and robe I throw across her knees and thus stripped to the waist resume my perusal of the awaiting and pensive three flagellants.
For me pain has always been an object to be endured, a hill to be ascended, overcome and left in my wake, disregarded and flattened by my will alone. Discomfort is the pell of the trainee warrior, the jousting pole that hones his skills, mind must always overcome physicality, it is the essence of a sentients being, the acknowledgement of intellectual triumph over mere animal form. We must be explorers not adventurers, writers rather than finished text. The masochist is happy to enjoy simple hedonistic pleasure, whilst the true seeker of knowledge realizes that simple release is but a diversion on the journey to the plains of Elysium. The girls before me had yet to acknowledge such complications to life. They were formative souls, happy to find fulfillment where it resides and for now the cracking tip of the whip is their nirvana.
The belt weighs heavy in my hand, wrought from woven strips of rhinoceros hide it moves with precision and articulate fury. The first lick caresses the right hand girls left buttock, just above the fullness joining the plump sphere to her thigh. Her inverted position gives a clear and luscious view of her gaped cunt and its tremulous response to the stinging blow. The second cut is backhand, against the left hand girls right buttock, a slash matching position and effect. Shuddering the third girl waits her turn knowing she is geometrically closer to my position and therefore more blessed with the force I can exert. Not wishing to disappoint I carefully place the belts end in my hand halving its length but doubling the thickness and paint her left then right buttock in quick succession. I can see and smell all three are soaking, their swollen labia lips glistening with discharge. The doubled belt blesses the right hand girls right buttock and the left hand girls left before I let the tip slip from my grip so the belt regains its full prehensile length.
The first crack of pliant leather against giving flesh has drawn the attention of rutting acolytes away from simple fucking, I feel them creep hesitantly forward behind me, close enough for their nostrils and eyes to feast upon the crucified bounty that I am tenderizing so generously. Another three rounds of stripes and the pink has turned through red to purple and puckers into beautifully anarchically patterned welts. The girls cunts are streaming, the fluid traversing their oscillating anuses, running down the valleys beyond and onwards along their spines. I step back one stride, wait a moment then back again and sure enough my feet are immersed in a sea of restless, sweating and salivating nakedness. My arms outstretched I hold the tide at bay, one second, ten seconds, till the very force of collective lust seems to want to propel me somersaulting forwards. Then I release them, like hell hounds upon a fresh prepared sacrifice and they hurl forward to take, devour and penetrate till sated they are incapable of anything but surrender to the Shades.
Michel is waiting at the doors to the lobby my gown open and held ready in his hands. Slipping it on in haste I nod in appreciation knowing he will fully grasp the depth of my continuing gratitude for his unquestioning service. Jordaine, the Legionnaire has the elevator doors open as I rush onwards. Again I nod and pressing his hand to his forehead, mouth and heart he demonstrates understanding. Michel follows close behind, sliding through the closing doors almost too late. My breathing is fast, my pulse racing, my need is urgent and undeniable. The elevator doors open too slowly and I help them angrily with blows from my fists and burst into the upper corridor, the mist descending on me, release my only need and goal.
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