The Erotic Tales Of Bucephalus free porn video
Chapter 1
Dreams come. Dreams go.
As always, our lovemaking begins in a dark place lost in time eternal.
We’ve done this before. Where? When? I’m not sure, but like the other times, I watch her as she preens. She loves the tension … the delay … the anticipation … the sensuousness unfolding. Her eyes hold a Cimmerian darkness, a barbarity of delights. Her tummy bulges over her black patch. A depression in the geography, the belly button acts as a beguiling sinkhole waiting to engulf the universe, and me with it. The muted blue light creates a purplish cast to her iron skin. Her nature evokes obscene enchantments like a she-witch in heat. Her aura tears me to shreds and she knows it.
Like all things erotic and terrible, her gestures are sacrifices. She guards herself, and even with surrender she keeps watch. Thin arms conceal breasts creating a barrier of self-imposed chastity. She doesn’t give up her charms easily. She never does, but her eyes speak otherwise. Her abstinence is short-lived because I know her game. The rules are easy. I must play and wait, but I always do.
She faces the only furnishing within the room—an old mirror. She presents her body to the looking glass like she’s doing it a favor, as if the mirror represents some leering suitor. In the surface, standing behind her, my reflection carries innocence. At this moment, I have no way of knowing if this is my true likeness, but I suspect I’ll don many faces throughout the dream.
Dramatically, she turns with a flourish and studies me like a familiar meal.
A long moment passes.
Her eyes say, “m***** me.”
She waits a while longer.
Her body says, “Take me.”
I sigh like an unbeliever.
Her sex says, “Fuck me.”
Still longer, she waits.
Finally, she makes her move and I believe.
With confidence she lowers her arms, as if surrendering this battle. However, I know better—she always wins the war. Her heart is a force of nature, complex, but awe-inspiring. This is no mere woman. This is the mystery—the eternal feminine—and she’s dangerous.
Her hands meet. Fingers entwine like fangs. A perfect fit. Head tilts. Eyes captivate. Shoulders pause. A moment of weakness appears, a moment of love for me. Her gaze returns to the mirror regaining control. Cautious, but with purpose, she edges closer to the looking glass. Her reflection moves like a wild a****l she’s trying to tame. Shadows obscure the monument of her back and the inset of her eyes. Her bottom tempts me, tumultuous and full, attractive yet dangerous. Her flesh can wound me—an enemy everlasting.
Reading my intentions, she rises from her chair causing me to falter. Like a pornographic cobra, she sways, back and forth. Her body makes hypnotic s-patterns. Her hair moves like smoke filmed and played backwards. She leans forward with come-hither attitude. Her hot exhalations fog the reflective surface. She touches her lips to the glass and pulls away, leaving lip prints like lesions. A lifeline of spittle connects the steel doppelgänger with the flesh counterpart. Which image of her is colder? Which image is more real? As if sensing my questions, she smiles with certainty, eternally fuckable, a daimones of my dreams, my lover.
Finally, it begins.
Her hand slides steady toward her sex, creeping slowly, inching forward, like a tarantula stalking prey. Her bony fingers proceed taut but animated. Her hand moves and then stops, lingering at the edge of uncertainty, at the edge of our separateness, a pause that becomes the perimeter between movement in the cosmos, the space between action and inaction.
After a long time, her index finger reaches her pubes … hesitates … a quick look in my direction … a smile … another hesitation. It inches past … parts the rouged lips once concealed … another look … another smile … another hesitation.
A shudder runs through me.
Finally, a pent-up sigh releases from her contracted frame. I stare at the penile digit rotating round and round, frigging her pussy. She works her finger around until it glistens with wetness.
After a long time of playing, she digs in with more force … hesitates … another quick look in my direction … and again that smile … another hesitation. She plunges deeper … brings herself closer … another look … another smile … another hesitation … pressure builds. She moans harder … pulls back … not yet.
We both suffer. She resumes … moans like a man. Fingers grind pink flesh like pestle to mortar. Her eyes roll back like an evangelist … almost there … not yet. A silent gasp escapes her. She pulls back and diddles harder.
Now.
Her tongue darts back and forth like a demon’s tentacle or a squiggling worm. Her panting becomes desperate. My arousal increases. I handle my meat. I can’t take it. She has me. I devour her ecstasy like a profane meal as I fondle myself. A rapturous grin makes her teeth mimic razors. Her smile is treacherous, anything but inviting.
In earnest, the daimones rushes toward me, knocking over the mirror with her backside. As she grabs for me, the looking glass crashes to the ground and our illusion shatters. I retreat a step, but not too far, and not too fast.
We stand off.
She advances, whispering in my head with telepathic schizophrenia, “The more you look, the more I see. The more I touch, the more you feel. I have you… like a cat has a mouse. I own you like a slaughtered pig. Do you see that God is in my face?”
I say nothing. Instead, I lunge forward. Not with confidence but with the sudden realization I must succumb to her, because she’s everlasting and I need to penetrate the depth of her abyss. She’s repulsive. I shouldn’t feel this way, but something compels me. I must pierce her, not with my penis, but with my heart. I must embrace her otherness, her destruction, like a doomed freighter embraced by the ocean, and she’s the cliff I crash against without purpose. By burying myself inside her, I confirm my own existence. I confirm my identity.
Dropping to her knees, she foregoes the customaries with nary a kiss to establish our connection. It isn’t needed. She grabs my cock and stuffs the head into her mouth with such ravenous force I almost stumble. She engulfs the member to the hilt—her head angled and back arched like an alley cat. She slides her head forward. Her mouth opens to its greatest circumference. Her tongue slides across the bottom of the shaft. Her eyes close. Thank God—if they were open, I’d lose my mind. Her free hand caresses my balls with force, on the edge of that grey world between pleasure and pain. She pulls her head back releasing her lips but not her pumping hand. She mutters in a despicable perversion of language, “Aaaahhh-hahahaha-it’s-sssssssssssssoo-good…”
Her movement tilts my cock upward allowing her access to the underside. She purses her lips and spits at the flesh. Her tongue circumambulates the head. She goes down on it.
Once.
Twice.
Three times more.
After one hundred times, I lose count.
On her last repetition, she takes the entire length of my prick. The tip of her tongue lathers my balls. Eyes squint in concentration as her second hand leaves my sack and lowers to her drenched cunt. I smell her musk as she diddles—a mixture of rotting leaves and lavender. She glides her teeth across the length of my rod. I believe she might castrate me. This danger makes the moment more lascivious. Her tongue darts out and she lets out a strange guttural moan, a paralyzing sound. Spittle drips from her lips. She wants more. She wants my soul. She wants everything. She strokes my shaft with fury as I attempt to hold back my orgasm. Of course, this is impossible. After several moments of toil, my load sprays over her face and breasts in gushes.
Panting, I stare into the abyss behind her eyes. There, I see, “Love is surrendering to death. I’ve taken you.” Yes, her machinations have taken me. Simultaneously, I feel something else—loss and gain.
A strange singing, forlorn, timeless, with meandering trills, sobers me from my bliss.
From the shadows, a form appears with wings sprouting from a nebulous head and a shimmering body of starless fire. I know instinctively, it’s Morpheus, son of Somnus, the deliverer of dreams.
The Lord of the Unreal proclaims:
“Welcome to Demos Oneiroi. Between shadows, in the dark recesses of my body, I present human images bestrewn by love, torn by emotion, in a wasteland of dreams.”
With that, Morpheus, the deliverer of dreams, disappears.
Chapter 2
The battle endures, enveloping twilight in carnage.
Spears puncture flesh, parting bones like cocks parting hymens. Blood flows. Heads roll. Hearts scream in agony. The phalanx presses forward. Banners gambol on the horizon. Sunset, with searing heat, mirrors the gore of the battlefield. Carnage has purpose; each man, each steed, each blade, all overcome the enemy in a gruesome dance. Ichor flows into the river returning vitamins and minerals back to the earth. Through clenched teeth, the dead speak, but the living can’t hear because they’re too busy trying to stay alive.
From the olive groves of Greece to the dusty palaces of India, we’ve seen many battles. Armies of two-score enraged elephants trample unfortunates into the ground like rotten fruit. Wounded men under siege eat each other to survive. c***dren and maniacs hang crucified because losers always get sacrificed. We endure twenty-thousand miles of gangrene, bloodshed, and conquest.
We butcher. We overcome. We succeed.
Our charge continues. I’m exhausted, bloodied, impaled, near death. Bucephalus is my name—a stallion, a warhorse of Alexander the Great, the protector of men and conqueror of antiquity. My death becomes inevitable, pierced by spears near the bank of the River Hydaspes. Instead of embracing doom, I charge. I stumble. I lie there. I try to stand, but it’s impossible. More spears pierce me. Somewhere to my left, Alexander battles on foot, an enraged king nearing the end of his reign. My master leaves me. My breath labors, coming in shallow hiccups of dirt, blood, and lung matter. Through fading eyes, I see witches collecting the blood of the dead, drinking and ritually smearing it upon their naked bodies, as my vision fades into an ocean of death.
Moments pass.
After a time of darkness, a single thought enters my mind, “I need to fuck…”
Of course, I need to fuck… I’m a man.
What’s this running through my head? It startles me. I’m no man. I’m a horse dying on a battlefield. Despite this, the realization of human consciousness enters me like a disease. I’m imprisoned. I fight the intruder, a struggle between the bestial and something unknown, something new and adventive, something higher—a natural urge fighting against the pull of supernal awareness. I inhabit a new mind—one that craves pleasure with overwhelming demands for consummation. I need to fuck. I need to kill. I need to eat. I need to worship. I need to sacrifice. I struggle with these thoughts. The thoughts struggle back. My mind, now sick with perversion, fills with overwhelming desire, and possibilities sexual and spiritual enter my consciousness. Shame. Elation. Guilt. These emotions overwhelm me. Where do they come from? What’s this mess worming though my brain? Moments ago, simple thoughts ran through my mind: eat, mate, fight, and flee. Now, I have presence. Now, I’ve gained reason and irrationality, morality and profanity, certainty and doubt. I know language. Millions of ideas, millions of suppositions, millions of insecurities flutter about my head, but the most overwhelming thought is fear of the unknown.
I murmur, “I need to fuck…” These words disgust me in their indecency, but I say them anyway. Passion, sensuality, eroticism, murderous intent, hunger, cowardice, and the strengths and flaws of all men, battle inside me. Moreover, like all men, I must act upon these passions. I need to consume. I need to destroy. Nevertheless, most of all, like all men … I need to fuck.
Possessing neither hoof nor snout, I touch my face with my hand. Hairless and rubbery, the features seem strange. I scan my location. Where? When? I stand in a room different from the ornate palaces of Alexandria. I stand in a body different from the warrior steeds of Macedonia. This is a different time, a different place, and a different purpose. I know this immediately. Could this be a dream? No, this is no dream, but perhaps a nightmare.
I look around.
To my left, an in-a-door bed sits unfolded. Crumpled white sheets illustrate past events in an illicit landscape of lost sexuality. To my right, a table with a leaning leg rests against the bed. On the table, a matchbook sits patiently, as if waiting for me to pick it up. Somehow, these objects seem familiar despite the fact I’ve never seen them. Purpose emanates from them like questions waiting to be answered. I pick up the matches and read the back: The Leland Hotel – Detroit, Michigan. A hotel is a building containing rooms people rent to have sex, take i*****l substances, and sometimes sleep. How do I know about hotels and d**gs? I don’t know. Nevertheless, I also know Adolf Hitler lost the war, the Marquis de Sade wrote Justine, frogs are amphibians, and Coca Cola rots my teeth.
Near the dusty footprint of the matchbook lies a laminated brochure. I pick it up, blow off the dust, and scan the yellowed document searching for clues to my whereabouts and identity.
“The Detroit-Leland Hotel is the oldest operating hotel in downtown Detroit, completed in 1927 at a cost of $4.5 million dollars. Designed by Chicago theater architects C. W. and George L. Rapp, the twenty-story building which contains seven hundred and twenty rooms, is a testament to the opulence and wealth of the Motor City. Welcome to history in the making!”
History in the making indeed, but who’s history? Is this 1927? No, I don’t think so. It can’t be. I scan the room. Opulence. Wealth. These I don’t see. What I do see is a worn-out space, wallpaper peeling, carpet ripped out, exposed floorboards, and dark brown stains on the floor that might be blood. It’s obviously not 1927. The space reeks of age. How do I know this? Opulence. Carpet. Floorboards. Somehow, the meaning of these words and objects are intuitive. Somehow, I know this world, although it’s different from mine. An overwhelming feeling like I’ve lived this before strikes me.
On the bed, a newspaper beckons me. Again, I’ve never seen one, but I know its purpose. Gutenberg invented the printing press in the West, but actually, the Chinese did it centuries before in the East. Kennedy was assassinated in 1963. Banks, not kings, rule the world. I know these things. I look at the top of the page: April 13, 1973. Somehow, I read the language easily. The headline reads:
“The News Advocate. OPEC imposes Oil Embargo, US Suspends All Activity Over Vietnam, Senate Committee Begins Watergate Hearings.”
This world runs out of oil, democracy forces itself upon weaker countries, and politicians can’t be trusted. I recall these things. However, I also remember another event: a woman, a terrifying yet alluring pythoness, with her lips wrapped around my sex. A thought strikes me—my penis! I look down and touch it—Oh Christ! This human mess in my head is one thing, but now my sex dangles a full six inches less than before. This is truly a nightmare. I pinch my penis thinking it might disappear if I cause enough pain and wake from this terrible dream.
Instead, a woman’s song emanates from behind the hotel room door startling me from inadequacy’s terror. Expression forlorn, timeless, and without care, the singing mesmerizes me into a trance. With her meandering trills, a siren calls me. I fall into her song.
Knock! Knock! Knock! A rapping at the door startles me.
Oh, shit! I’m not wearing clothes—and apparently, I’ve gained the ability to use dirty words. Great—vulgar thoughts AND vulgar language swirl about in my new psyche. I feel ashamed. As if on cue, that same vulgar phrase enters my mind, “I need to—”
The door opens without warning.
Standing in the doorway holding a skeleton key, mouth agape in disbelief, stands a beautiful young woman staring at my exposed rod and balls. A little red blemish on my shaft indicates my pinch. With her eyes trained on my cock and mine staring at her beauty, neither of us says a word.
After several moments of hesitation she finally says, “Hello there. Aren’t you mister horny?”
I try to cover myself, but it’s a futile gesture. It’s too late. Her cheeks redden the same shade of red as my pinch mark. Neither of us knows what to do, so we both laugh uncomfortably. Her laugh is melodic. Mine blabbers innocent and unproven.
After what seems like many minutes of silence, but probably only a few seconds, she takes the initiative. She says, “Can you hear me? Earth to weird guy. Are you hearing this?”
I nod.
She says, “I didn’t mean to scare the piss out of you.”
I mutter, “No, you didn’t scare me. I don’t know what’s going on.”
As if telling me a secret, she lowers her voice saying, “I heard a sound. I always hear strange sounds down here. It seems so real. I heard a voice telling me I needed something important, so I came inside because I thought it was in here. I have a compulsion to open doors—at least that’s what my ther****t says, but that Prozac peddler also says I’m cuckoo, so who knows? I think he’s the one who should have his head examined.”
Her prattle seems incoherent. I tilt my head as I process her story. Maybe this is a dream. Maybe I’m a horse dying on a battlefield dreaming of being a man. Alternatively, perhaps, I’m a man dreaming of being a dying horse. It doesn’t matter. Now, this girl stands before me and our meeting seems like the only thing that’s real.
I study her. She’s young perhaps eighteen. In my world, she’d already be married and have several c***dren, but in this world, she’s obviously inexperienced. With golden hair, eyes dark and almond-shaped, something within her dwells darkest, a youthful spring running deep with ancient wisdom. In contrast, her alabaster skin radiates light with facial features conveying a deep sadness, but with over-exaggerated body language telling otherwise. Small breasts stand high on her magnificent form. Sylphlike hips balance a tan pair of shorts and a matching satin slip, handmade, with lacy appliqué fashioned specially for her by an expert modiste.
I can’t take my eyes off her.
I whisper, “I’m sorry about my nakedness.” The words sound strange as my vocal cords vibrate my thoughts audibly. With more confidence I add, “What I mean to say is that I didn’t expect visitors. I’m confused. I was on a battlefield. People were dying. Witches were drinking blood. I wasn’t a man. I was a horse. Now, I think I’m in a dream.”
“Aren’t we all?” She says without empathy. Seeing how her comment wounds me, she adds, “Don’t bother covering yourself. I’m nearly naked too. It’s usually better that way. You seem afraid of me. Don’t be. I’m not afraid of you or your dick, so you shouldn’t fear me. Besides, you have nothing to worry about down below. Nothing to worry about whatsoever.” She giggles, points to my cock, and says, “You’re no horse, but you’re sure hung like one.”
She giggles again. Meekly, I join her laughter—her comment is comical despite my awkwardness. Her head tilts as she tries to get a better look at my penis. A threatening step forward indicates her intention. I say nothing. My hands fall to my sides because it’s too ridiculous to try and cover myself. A moment ago, this was an absurd situation, but now it has turned erotic. I feel fear mixed with excitement. As if sensing my fear, she asks, “Can I touch it?”
In wonder, her eyes grow larger. I don’t know what to do. This is unfamiliar territory. I step back. She advances on me. Like a wild a****l, I take a defensive stance baring my teeth with fury.
She says, “I won’t hurt you. Are you actually afraid of me? You’re big and strong. I’m just a little girl with a crazy mind. You can’t possibly be afraid of me.”
She pauses. A moment lingers.
She breathes, “I want to touch it. Let me touch it.”
I stammer.
She adds, “Let me touch it gently like a baby. I won’t hurt it. Unless, of course, you want me to.”
I say with a wavering voice, “You’re beautiful. I’m—”
She interrupts me saying, “Nah, I’m not beautiful. People think I’m too weird, too skinny, and too eccentric. They think my soul is too deep. I think people are shallow pricks, so I guess we’re even.”
She shrugs and then makes a gesture like brushing dust off her shoulder. Once again, her eyes dart to my penis.
Then, her fingers edge toward my cock.
I study her. I look deeply into her eyes. I say, “No, you’re not eccentric. No, you’re—”
A loud electronic screech interrupts me.
Applause, with roars of approval, accompanies a booming voice calling out doom. I turn, and see a large box with a wavering pixellated image of a man raising his arms, stirring up an audience with his words reminding me of a pontifex, an evil sorcerer, or an inquisitor. Devilish eyes swim like sharks below his wide-brimmed hat.
I stand transfixed by the images.
Noting the horror on my face, she says, “That’s a TV.”
I shake my head trying to remember. Staring at the box like a zombie I say, “Yes, a television. I know. What’s that demon raving about?”
Her voice grows sad as she replies, “Oh, that’s just another uptight whack-job talking about God-knows-what. Probably, saying this or that group doesn’t belong, that they’re too weird to be accepted, or that they’re the Devil’s nursemaids. Probably saying we should kick out the faggots and the niggers. I think he’s the jerk who needs to be kicked out.”
Still staring at the box like a zombie, I say, “I don’t trust him. He wears the skin of a man, but he’s no man.”
A startling thought hits me. I also wear the skin of a man. Perhaps, I have the capabilities to be like him.
She inches closer. She says, “Ha! Nobody trusts people like him, but we all follow. That’s how it goes—sleepy people acting like sleepy sheep without responsibility, looking for an idiot to blame when things go wrong. ”
Before she can touch my penis, I say, “Can you change the picture? I don’t like it. I don’t like him one bit.”
She laughs. She shakes her head saying, “Boy. You’re new to all this, aren’t you?”
I stare at the monster.
Glancing again at my naked body, she nods her head affirmatively. She goes over to the television and fiddles with the knob. As she passes me her shoulder brushes my arm. Our contact sends a shiver through my body. This feeling takes hold of something deep inside.
Suddenly, the politician disappears replaced by something perhaps more mysterious and disturbing. A woman tries to sell a box of something. Apparently, it cleans everything and makes all the bad things go away. Moreover, it’s cheap too. My companion fiddles the knob again, clicks and static, and then another woman appears. This one is different. She doesn’t have the false smile of the former. Her face contorts with pleasure as she straddles a man. He enters her vagina with his rod. Another man crouches above her with his cock plunging inside her other hole. At once, this image provokes strange emotions in me. I stare transfixed as they push into her and she howls with delight.
In wonder, I say, “What’s this? I—”
The girl with the golden hair giggles and moves a little closer to me. Like it’s the most obvious answer in the world, she says, “It’s porno silly.”
I say nothing.
She gets frustrated by my lack of response and adds, “You know? P-O-R-N-O-G-R-A-P-H-Y. It’s not as bad as all the politicians say it is, but they sure try to make us believe it’s worse. These idiots show people being torn to pieces by soldiers on the tube, but they make this taboo. Jesus Christ! Haven’t you ever been with a girl before?”
“Been?”
“Yeah, like BEEN inside her? Stuck it in? Poked around? Broke an entry? Kissed her? Fondled her? Groped unquestionable areas of her body? Wham bam thank you ma’am?”
“No, I haven’t.”
Her questions and vulgarity cause my dick to become erect. Watching it rise, she giggles again and says, “I haven’t done it too much either, once or twice, but I always think about it. What would it feel like fucking a girl with a strap-on? What would it feel like kissing my brother? What would it feel like taking a huge blacksnake into my Alpha and Omega? Are these thoughts wrong? I don’t think so.”
The unrefined manner of this girl intrigues me. My dick grows harder with her colorful language. With sudden courage, the girl with the golden hair reaches out, taps my member, and it springs back like a diving board.
She giggles again and declares, “Wood like Pinocchio. You could kill a vampire with that thing!”
I can’t laugh. Her nearness is driving me crazy.
Our eyes meet.
An energy conduit builds.
I can’t explain it.
She runs her finger along the largest vein of my cock tracing its route like she’s smudging dust from a table. I shudder. She looks deeper into my eyes. She raises one eyebrow. It’s an inviting gesture meant to say, “Interested?”
All I can do is remain speechless and think, “I really need to fuck.”
***
To be continued in "The Erotic Tales of Bucephalus" by Christopher of Detroit. Available on all e-book selling platforms like Amazon, iTunes, and Barnes & Noble.
Dreams come. Dreams go.
As always, our lovemaking begins in a dark place lost in time eternal.
We’ve done this before. Where? When? I’m not sure, but like the other times, I watch her as she preens. She loves the tension … the delay … the anticipation … the sensuousness unfolding. Her eyes hold a Cimmerian darkness, a barbarity of delights. Her tummy bulges over her black patch. A depression in the geography, the belly button acts as a beguiling sinkhole waiting to engulf the universe, and me with it. The muted blue light creates a purplish cast to her iron skin. Her nature evokes obscene enchantments like a she-witch in heat. Her aura tears me to shreds and she knows it.
Like all things erotic and terrible, her gestures are sacrifices. She guards herself, and even with surrender she keeps watch. Thin arms conceal breasts creating a barrier of self-imposed chastity. She doesn’t give up her charms easily. She never does, but her eyes speak otherwise. Her abstinence is short-lived because I know her game. The rules are easy. I must play and wait, but I always do.
She faces the only furnishing within the room—an old mirror. She presents her body to the looking glass like she’s doing it a favor, as if the mirror represents some leering suitor. In the surface, standing behind her, my reflection carries innocence. At this moment, I have no way of knowing if this is my true likeness, but I suspect I’ll don many faces throughout the dream.
Dramatically, she turns with a flourish and studies me like a familiar meal.
A long moment passes.
Her eyes say, “m***** me.”
She waits a while longer.
Her body says, “Take me.”
I sigh like an unbeliever.
Her sex says, “Fuck me.”
Still longer, she waits.
Finally, she makes her move and I believe.
With confidence she lowers her arms, as if surrendering this battle. However, I know better—she always wins the war. Her heart is a force of nature, complex, but awe-inspiring. This is no mere woman. This is the mystery—the eternal feminine—and she’s dangerous.
Her hands meet. Fingers entwine like fangs. A perfect fit. Head tilts. Eyes captivate. Shoulders pause. A moment of weakness appears, a moment of love for me. Her gaze returns to the mirror regaining control. Cautious, but with purpose, she edges closer to the looking glass. Her reflection moves like a wild a****l she’s trying to tame. Shadows obscure the monument of her back and the inset of her eyes. Her bottom tempts me, tumultuous and full, attractive yet dangerous. Her flesh can wound me—an enemy everlasting.
Reading my intentions, she rises from her chair causing me to falter. Like a pornographic cobra, she sways, back and forth. Her body makes hypnotic s-patterns. Her hair moves like smoke filmed and played backwards. She leans forward with come-hither attitude. Her hot exhalations fog the reflective surface. She touches her lips to the glass and pulls away, leaving lip prints like lesions. A lifeline of spittle connects the steel doppelgänger with the flesh counterpart. Which image of her is colder? Which image is more real? As if sensing my questions, she smiles with certainty, eternally fuckable, a daimones of my dreams, my lover.
Finally, it begins.
Her hand slides steady toward her sex, creeping slowly, inching forward, like a tarantula stalking prey. Her bony fingers proceed taut but animated. Her hand moves and then stops, lingering at the edge of uncertainty, at the edge of our separateness, a pause that becomes the perimeter between movement in the cosmos, the space between action and inaction.
After a long time, her index finger reaches her pubes … hesitates … a quick look in my direction … a smile … another hesitation. It inches past … parts the rouged lips once concealed … another look … another smile … another hesitation.
A shudder runs through me.
Finally, a pent-up sigh releases from her contracted frame. I stare at the penile digit rotating round and round, frigging her pussy. She works her finger around until it glistens with wetness.
After a long time of playing, she digs in with more force … hesitates … another quick look in my direction … and again that smile … another hesitation. She plunges deeper … brings herself closer … another look … another smile … another hesitation … pressure builds. She moans harder … pulls back … not yet.
We both suffer. She resumes … moans like a man. Fingers grind pink flesh like pestle to mortar. Her eyes roll back like an evangelist … almost there … not yet. A silent gasp escapes her. She pulls back and diddles harder.
Now.
Her tongue darts back and forth like a demon’s tentacle or a squiggling worm. Her panting becomes desperate. My arousal increases. I handle my meat. I can’t take it. She has me. I devour her ecstasy like a profane meal as I fondle myself. A rapturous grin makes her teeth mimic razors. Her smile is treacherous, anything but inviting.
In earnest, the daimones rushes toward me, knocking over the mirror with her backside. As she grabs for me, the looking glass crashes to the ground and our illusion shatters. I retreat a step, but not too far, and not too fast.
We stand off.
She advances, whispering in my head with telepathic schizophrenia, “The more you look, the more I see. The more I touch, the more you feel. I have you… like a cat has a mouse. I own you like a slaughtered pig. Do you see that God is in my face?”
I say nothing. Instead, I lunge forward. Not with confidence but with the sudden realization I must succumb to her, because she’s everlasting and I need to penetrate the depth of her abyss. She’s repulsive. I shouldn’t feel this way, but something compels me. I must pierce her, not with my penis, but with my heart. I must embrace her otherness, her destruction, like a doomed freighter embraced by the ocean, and she’s the cliff I crash against without purpose. By burying myself inside her, I confirm my own existence. I confirm my identity.
Dropping to her knees, she foregoes the customaries with nary a kiss to establish our connection. It isn’t needed. She grabs my cock and stuffs the head into her mouth with such ravenous force I almost stumble. She engulfs the member to the hilt—her head angled and back arched like an alley cat. She slides her head forward. Her mouth opens to its greatest circumference. Her tongue slides across the bottom of the shaft. Her eyes close. Thank God—if they were open, I’d lose my mind. Her free hand caresses my balls with force, on the edge of that grey world between pleasure and pain. She pulls her head back releasing her lips but not her pumping hand. She mutters in a despicable perversion of language, “Aaaahhh-hahahaha-it’s-sssssssssssssoo-good…”
Her movement tilts my cock upward allowing her access to the underside. She purses her lips and spits at the flesh. Her tongue circumambulates the head. She goes down on it.
Once.
Twice.
Three times more.
After one hundred times, I lose count.
On her last repetition, she takes the entire length of my prick. The tip of her tongue lathers my balls. Eyes squint in concentration as her second hand leaves my sack and lowers to her drenched cunt. I smell her musk as she diddles—a mixture of rotting leaves and lavender. She glides her teeth across the length of my rod. I believe she might castrate me. This danger makes the moment more lascivious. Her tongue darts out and she lets out a strange guttural moan, a paralyzing sound. Spittle drips from her lips. She wants more. She wants my soul. She wants everything. She strokes my shaft with fury as I attempt to hold back my orgasm. Of course, this is impossible. After several moments of toil, my load sprays over her face and breasts in gushes.
Panting, I stare into the abyss behind her eyes. There, I see, “Love is surrendering to death. I’ve taken you.” Yes, her machinations have taken me. Simultaneously, I feel something else—loss and gain.
A strange singing, forlorn, timeless, with meandering trills, sobers me from my bliss.
From the shadows, a form appears with wings sprouting from a nebulous head and a shimmering body of starless fire. I know instinctively, it’s Morpheus, son of Somnus, the deliverer of dreams.
The Lord of the Unreal proclaims:
“Welcome to Demos Oneiroi. Between shadows, in the dark recesses of my body, I present human images bestrewn by love, torn by emotion, in a wasteland of dreams.”
With that, Morpheus, the deliverer of dreams, disappears.
Chapter 2
The battle endures, enveloping twilight in carnage.
Spears puncture flesh, parting bones like cocks parting hymens. Blood flows. Heads roll. Hearts scream in agony. The phalanx presses forward. Banners gambol on the horizon. Sunset, with searing heat, mirrors the gore of the battlefield. Carnage has purpose; each man, each steed, each blade, all overcome the enemy in a gruesome dance. Ichor flows into the river returning vitamins and minerals back to the earth. Through clenched teeth, the dead speak, but the living can’t hear because they’re too busy trying to stay alive.
From the olive groves of Greece to the dusty palaces of India, we’ve seen many battles. Armies of two-score enraged elephants trample unfortunates into the ground like rotten fruit. Wounded men under siege eat each other to survive. c***dren and maniacs hang crucified because losers always get sacrificed. We endure twenty-thousand miles of gangrene, bloodshed, and conquest.
We butcher. We overcome. We succeed.
Our charge continues. I’m exhausted, bloodied, impaled, near death. Bucephalus is my name—a stallion, a warhorse of Alexander the Great, the protector of men and conqueror of antiquity. My death becomes inevitable, pierced by spears near the bank of the River Hydaspes. Instead of embracing doom, I charge. I stumble. I lie there. I try to stand, but it’s impossible. More spears pierce me. Somewhere to my left, Alexander battles on foot, an enraged king nearing the end of his reign. My master leaves me. My breath labors, coming in shallow hiccups of dirt, blood, and lung matter. Through fading eyes, I see witches collecting the blood of the dead, drinking and ritually smearing it upon their naked bodies, as my vision fades into an ocean of death.
Moments pass.
After a time of darkness, a single thought enters my mind, “I need to fuck…”
Of course, I need to fuck… I’m a man.
What’s this running through my head? It startles me. I’m no man. I’m a horse dying on a battlefield. Despite this, the realization of human consciousness enters me like a disease. I’m imprisoned. I fight the intruder, a struggle between the bestial and something unknown, something new and adventive, something higher—a natural urge fighting against the pull of supernal awareness. I inhabit a new mind—one that craves pleasure with overwhelming demands for consummation. I need to fuck. I need to kill. I need to eat. I need to worship. I need to sacrifice. I struggle with these thoughts. The thoughts struggle back. My mind, now sick with perversion, fills with overwhelming desire, and possibilities sexual and spiritual enter my consciousness. Shame. Elation. Guilt. These emotions overwhelm me. Where do they come from? What’s this mess worming though my brain? Moments ago, simple thoughts ran through my mind: eat, mate, fight, and flee. Now, I have presence. Now, I’ve gained reason and irrationality, morality and profanity, certainty and doubt. I know language. Millions of ideas, millions of suppositions, millions of insecurities flutter about my head, but the most overwhelming thought is fear of the unknown.
I murmur, “I need to fuck…” These words disgust me in their indecency, but I say them anyway. Passion, sensuality, eroticism, murderous intent, hunger, cowardice, and the strengths and flaws of all men, battle inside me. Moreover, like all men, I must act upon these passions. I need to consume. I need to destroy. Nevertheless, most of all, like all men … I need to fuck.
Possessing neither hoof nor snout, I touch my face with my hand. Hairless and rubbery, the features seem strange. I scan my location. Where? When? I stand in a room different from the ornate palaces of Alexandria. I stand in a body different from the warrior steeds of Macedonia. This is a different time, a different place, and a different purpose. I know this immediately. Could this be a dream? No, this is no dream, but perhaps a nightmare.
I look around.
To my left, an in-a-door bed sits unfolded. Crumpled white sheets illustrate past events in an illicit landscape of lost sexuality. To my right, a table with a leaning leg rests against the bed. On the table, a matchbook sits patiently, as if waiting for me to pick it up. Somehow, these objects seem familiar despite the fact I’ve never seen them. Purpose emanates from them like questions waiting to be answered. I pick up the matches and read the back: The Leland Hotel – Detroit, Michigan. A hotel is a building containing rooms people rent to have sex, take i*****l substances, and sometimes sleep. How do I know about hotels and d**gs? I don’t know. Nevertheless, I also know Adolf Hitler lost the war, the Marquis de Sade wrote Justine, frogs are amphibians, and Coca Cola rots my teeth.
Near the dusty footprint of the matchbook lies a laminated brochure. I pick it up, blow off the dust, and scan the yellowed document searching for clues to my whereabouts and identity.
“The Detroit-Leland Hotel is the oldest operating hotel in downtown Detroit, completed in 1927 at a cost of $4.5 million dollars. Designed by Chicago theater architects C. W. and George L. Rapp, the twenty-story building which contains seven hundred and twenty rooms, is a testament to the opulence and wealth of the Motor City. Welcome to history in the making!”
History in the making indeed, but who’s history? Is this 1927? No, I don’t think so. It can’t be. I scan the room. Opulence. Wealth. These I don’t see. What I do see is a worn-out space, wallpaper peeling, carpet ripped out, exposed floorboards, and dark brown stains on the floor that might be blood. It’s obviously not 1927. The space reeks of age. How do I know this? Opulence. Carpet. Floorboards. Somehow, the meaning of these words and objects are intuitive. Somehow, I know this world, although it’s different from mine. An overwhelming feeling like I’ve lived this before strikes me.
On the bed, a newspaper beckons me. Again, I’ve never seen one, but I know its purpose. Gutenberg invented the printing press in the West, but actually, the Chinese did it centuries before in the East. Kennedy was assassinated in 1963. Banks, not kings, rule the world. I know these things. I look at the top of the page: April 13, 1973. Somehow, I read the language easily. The headline reads:
“The News Advocate. OPEC imposes Oil Embargo, US Suspends All Activity Over Vietnam, Senate Committee Begins Watergate Hearings.”
This world runs out of oil, democracy forces itself upon weaker countries, and politicians can’t be trusted. I recall these things. However, I also remember another event: a woman, a terrifying yet alluring pythoness, with her lips wrapped around my sex. A thought strikes me—my penis! I look down and touch it—Oh Christ! This human mess in my head is one thing, but now my sex dangles a full six inches less than before. This is truly a nightmare. I pinch my penis thinking it might disappear if I cause enough pain and wake from this terrible dream.
Instead, a woman’s song emanates from behind the hotel room door startling me from inadequacy’s terror. Expression forlorn, timeless, and without care, the singing mesmerizes me into a trance. With her meandering trills, a siren calls me. I fall into her song.
Knock! Knock! Knock! A rapping at the door startles me.
Oh, shit! I’m not wearing clothes—and apparently, I’ve gained the ability to use dirty words. Great—vulgar thoughts AND vulgar language swirl about in my new psyche. I feel ashamed. As if on cue, that same vulgar phrase enters my mind, “I need to—”
The door opens without warning.
Standing in the doorway holding a skeleton key, mouth agape in disbelief, stands a beautiful young woman staring at my exposed rod and balls. A little red blemish on my shaft indicates my pinch. With her eyes trained on my cock and mine staring at her beauty, neither of us says a word.
After several moments of hesitation she finally says, “Hello there. Aren’t you mister horny?”
I try to cover myself, but it’s a futile gesture. It’s too late. Her cheeks redden the same shade of red as my pinch mark. Neither of us knows what to do, so we both laugh uncomfortably. Her laugh is melodic. Mine blabbers innocent and unproven.
After what seems like many minutes of silence, but probably only a few seconds, she takes the initiative. She says, “Can you hear me? Earth to weird guy. Are you hearing this?”
I nod.
She says, “I didn’t mean to scare the piss out of you.”
I mutter, “No, you didn’t scare me. I don’t know what’s going on.”
As if telling me a secret, she lowers her voice saying, “I heard a sound. I always hear strange sounds down here. It seems so real. I heard a voice telling me I needed something important, so I came inside because I thought it was in here. I have a compulsion to open doors—at least that’s what my ther****t says, but that Prozac peddler also says I’m cuckoo, so who knows? I think he’s the one who should have his head examined.”
Her prattle seems incoherent. I tilt my head as I process her story. Maybe this is a dream. Maybe I’m a horse dying on a battlefield dreaming of being a man. Alternatively, perhaps, I’m a man dreaming of being a dying horse. It doesn’t matter. Now, this girl stands before me and our meeting seems like the only thing that’s real.
I study her. She’s young perhaps eighteen. In my world, she’d already be married and have several c***dren, but in this world, she’s obviously inexperienced. With golden hair, eyes dark and almond-shaped, something within her dwells darkest, a youthful spring running deep with ancient wisdom. In contrast, her alabaster skin radiates light with facial features conveying a deep sadness, but with over-exaggerated body language telling otherwise. Small breasts stand high on her magnificent form. Sylphlike hips balance a tan pair of shorts and a matching satin slip, handmade, with lacy appliqué fashioned specially for her by an expert modiste.
I can’t take my eyes off her.
I whisper, “I’m sorry about my nakedness.” The words sound strange as my vocal cords vibrate my thoughts audibly. With more confidence I add, “What I mean to say is that I didn’t expect visitors. I’m confused. I was on a battlefield. People were dying. Witches were drinking blood. I wasn’t a man. I was a horse. Now, I think I’m in a dream.”
“Aren’t we all?” She says without empathy. Seeing how her comment wounds me, she adds, “Don’t bother covering yourself. I’m nearly naked too. It’s usually better that way. You seem afraid of me. Don’t be. I’m not afraid of you or your dick, so you shouldn’t fear me. Besides, you have nothing to worry about down below. Nothing to worry about whatsoever.” She giggles, points to my cock, and says, “You’re no horse, but you’re sure hung like one.”
She giggles again. Meekly, I join her laughter—her comment is comical despite my awkwardness. Her head tilts as she tries to get a better look at my penis. A threatening step forward indicates her intention. I say nothing. My hands fall to my sides because it’s too ridiculous to try and cover myself. A moment ago, this was an absurd situation, but now it has turned erotic. I feel fear mixed with excitement. As if sensing my fear, she asks, “Can I touch it?”
In wonder, her eyes grow larger. I don’t know what to do. This is unfamiliar territory. I step back. She advances on me. Like a wild a****l, I take a defensive stance baring my teeth with fury.
She says, “I won’t hurt you. Are you actually afraid of me? You’re big and strong. I’m just a little girl with a crazy mind. You can’t possibly be afraid of me.”
She pauses. A moment lingers.
She breathes, “I want to touch it. Let me touch it.”
I stammer.
She adds, “Let me touch it gently like a baby. I won’t hurt it. Unless, of course, you want me to.”
I say with a wavering voice, “You’re beautiful. I’m—”
She interrupts me saying, “Nah, I’m not beautiful. People think I’m too weird, too skinny, and too eccentric. They think my soul is too deep. I think people are shallow pricks, so I guess we’re even.”
She shrugs and then makes a gesture like brushing dust off her shoulder. Once again, her eyes dart to my penis.
Then, her fingers edge toward my cock.
I study her. I look deeply into her eyes. I say, “No, you’re not eccentric. No, you’re—”
A loud electronic screech interrupts me.
Applause, with roars of approval, accompanies a booming voice calling out doom. I turn, and see a large box with a wavering pixellated image of a man raising his arms, stirring up an audience with his words reminding me of a pontifex, an evil sorcerer, or an inquisitor. Devilish eyes swim like sharks below his wide-brimmed hat.
I stand transfixed by the images.
Noting the horror on my face, she says, “That’s a TV.”
I shake my head trying to remember. Staring at the box like a zombie I say, “Yes, a television. I know. What’s that demon raving about?”
Her voice grows sad as she replies, “Oh, that’s just another uptight whack-job talking about God-knows-what. Probably, saying this or that group doesn’t belong, that they’re too weird to be accepted, or that they’re the Devil’s nursemaids. Probably saying we should kick out the faggots and the niggers. I think he’s the jerk who needs to be kicked out.”
Still staring at the box like a zombie, I say, “I don’t trust him. He wears the skin of a man, but he’s no man.”
A startling thought hits me. I also wear the skin of a man. Perhaps, I have the capabilities to be like him.
She inches closer. She says, “Ha! Nobody trusts people like him, but we all follow. That’s how it goes—sleepy people acting like sleepy sheep without responsibility, looking for an idiot to blame when things go wrong. ”
Before she can touch my penis, I say, “Can you change the picture? I don’t like it. I don’t like him one bit.”
She laughs. She shakes her head saying, “Boy. You’re new to all this, aren’t you?”
I stare at the monster.
Glancing again at my naked body, she nods her head affirmatively. She goes over to the television and fiddles with the knob. As she passes me her shoulder brushes my arm. Our contact sends a shiver through my body. This feeling takes hold of something deep inside.
Suddenly, the politician disappears replaced by something perhaps more mysterious and disturbing. A woman tries to sell a box of something. Apparently, it cleans everything and makes all the bad things go away. Moreover, it’s cheap too. My companion fiddles the knob again, clicks and static, and then another woman appears. This one is different. She doesn’t have the false smile of the former. Her face contorts with pleasure as she straddles a man. He enters her vagina with his rod. Another man crouches above her with his cock plunging inside her other hole. At once, this image provokes strange emotions in me. I stare transfixed as they push into her and she howls with delight.
In wonder, I say, “What’s this? I—”
The girl with the golden hair giggles and moves a little closer to me. Like it’s the most obvious answer in the world, she says, “It’s porno silly.”
I say nothing.
She gets frustrated by my lack of response and adds, “You know? P-O-R-N-O-G-R-A-P-H-Y. It’s not as bad as all the politicians say it is, but they sure try to make us believe it’s worse. These idiots show people being torn to pieces by soldiers on the tube, but they make this taboo. Jesus Christ! Haven’t you ever been with a girl before?”
“Been?”
“Yeah, like BEEN inside her? Stuck it in? Poked around? Broke an entry? Kissed her? Fondled her? Groped unquestionable areas of her body? Wham bam thank you ma’am?”
“No, I haven’t.”
Her questions and vulgarity cause my dick to become erect. Watching it rise, she giggles again and says, “I haven’t done it too much either, once or twice, but I always think about it. What would it feel like fucking a girl with a strap-on? What would it feel like kissing my brother? What would it feel like taking a huge blacksnake into my Alpha and Omega? Are these thoughts wrong? I don’t think so.”
The unrefined manner of this girl intrigues me. My dick grows harder with her colorful language. With sudden courage, the girl with the golden hair reaches out, taps my member, and it springs back like a diving board.
She giggles again and declares, “Wood like Pinocchio. You could kill a vampire with that thing!”
I can’t laugh. Her nearness is driving me crazy.
Our eyes meet.
An energy conduit builds.
I can’t explain it.
She runs her finger along the largest vein of my cock tracing its route like she’s smudging dust from a table. I shudder. She looks deeper into my eyes. She raises one eyebrow. It’s an inviting gesture meant to say, “Interested?”
All I can do is remain speechless and think, “I really need to fuck.”
***
To be continued in "The Erotic Tales of Bucephalus" by Christopher of Detroit. Available on all e-book selling platforms like Amazon, iTunes, and Barnes & Noble.
Tammi
- 01.09.2022
- 25
- 0
