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Blasphemy - Short Story.

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It should have been 10000 B.C., that day, as the skyclad parishoners
danced their delightfully orgasmic dance around the inner circle in
which the Priest stood, staunchly masturbating from between the folds of
his volumnous robe to the chants of the congregation into the
Priestess's gaping maw. Sullivan's salvation lay in the building
spiritual tension as he screamed blue-faced through his mask of abject
terror from the skirts of the ring, and the Inner Circle crowded in
piles of their own abandoned shit-caked robes, still sopping as the
Priestess's cunt with their own piss. There were five of them, crowded
around her center-piece to form a hexagram with the Priest as one of
them thrust angrily into the Priestess's tender hand, another lost in
orgasmic oblivion as he orgasmed repeatedly onto her sagging breasts and
swollen stomach and still moaned with hedonistic passion under her
manipulations. Another wept bitterly, the taste of salty tears and
bitter bile mixing in his mouth with her fluids, while the other two
stood sagely with erect members swinging gently to and fro.

The Outer Circle screamed in a dischordant chorus, to some DIANA! DIANA!
and to others ERIS! ERIS!, and beat the muddy ground with barefisted
fury. Some moaned passionately, Diana!, and some in violet rage. At
the height of their cacophonic assault, the Priest raised his arms and
the seven of the Inner Circle violently, silently orgasmed as one. All
movement stopped, and time itself seemed to slow in a flurry of frozen
eddies, as he reached into his robe and drew out a black-handled blade.

With great circumstance, the Priest did not lift his arm but rather let
it rise to meet his outstretched palm. As the faux pas crucifix
ascended, Sullivan's eyes bulged as a shaft of adrennalinnic energy shot
through his veins. A phallic bottle, a phallic glass, and the blade
shot down at once towards the Sacrificing Priestess. Her breasts,
heart, and cunt were pierced with shards of broken glass and razor steel
as she screamed in pain and pleasure and passion.

The invisible strings held taut by the dagger were split neatly, and
Sullivan's spirit left him as he fell to his knees. Gasping for breath,
his orgasm shuddered through into the Inner Circle and tears were jerked
to his eyes from his viscera. Time slowed further, and he was felled
into a fetal trembling as his eyes slammed down in time with the perfect
parabola of his inert form.

In a fit of blazing calmness, the Priest uncowled his self, face first
through a party of the astonished onlookers. Looking past the
gold-rimmed spectacles perched on the bridge of his nose, he took in the
sight afront his eyes as the protagonist laid there in pornographic
splendour, clutching his flacid cock between his fingers and moaning
gently in a mockery of orgasmic terror.

"My god, my god!," moaned The Protrate, as he bit down hard on his
clenched fist and he wept bitter tears from his bloodshot eyes.

"Deliver me from my fear," gurgled the Sacrifice, as the air she sucked
desperately into her rose-washed lips bubbled through her milky breasts.
"Deliver me from my mind, Deliver me from my spirit, Deliver me from my

The Priest raised the black and bloodied dagger once more, as the
Sacrifice screamed. DELIVER ME FROM MYSELF!, and the blade plunged
mercilessly down, and up again. DELIVER ME FROM MYSELF!, as the blade
DELIVER ME FROM MYSELF!, and into a wordless moan as she was splayed
grotesquely in a steaming circle of feces, piss, jism, blood, and water.

Sullivan began to shiver, as droplets of water flowed from the sky and
blood sprayed indiscriminately from direction, ever weakening as her
shredded heart slowed and silenced. Calming, he wearily rose to his
knees and feet. His eyes lurched up to meet the intent stare of the
Priest. With sinking understanding and acceptance, he stepped forward
into the Inner Circle and climbed atop the Sacrifice. His cock rising,
slapping against his legs then his stomach as he climbed to a crouch
atop its ravaged corpse, he carefully slid into her bloody cunt. Taking
the offered blade in his right hand, Sullivan slid its razor edge gently
across her stomach and, reaching past the offal's stench, clutched a
squirming mass of unborn flesh and raised the newborn above his head in
one hand. Tears of adoration dripping down his wet, bloody cheeks, he
slid repeatedly between the still-warm folds of the Sacrifice's labia
and sliced away the child's lifeline as he lapped away the birth-grime
and came again, weakly this time. His erection relenting, Sullivan
pulled himself from within and faced the Priest once more.

Each and every congregation-member slid to one knee, as Sullivan spoke.

"For unto us, a child is born..."