Message-ID: <11373eli$9805171215@qz.little-neck.ny.us> X-Archived-At: From: john_dark@anon.nymserver.com Subject: {Morton}JDR"The Essence of Addiction"( ds F/M mc anal )[1/1] Newsgroups: alt.sex.stories.moderated,alt.sex.stories Followup-To: alt.sex.stories.d Path: qz!not-for-mail Organization: The Committee To Thwart Spam Approved: X-Moderator-Contact: Eli the Bearded X-Story-Submission: X-Original-Message-ID: <6jm55m$lb$1@sparky.wolfe.net> JOHN DARK REPOST The following story is posted for the entertainment of adults. If you are below the age of eighteen or are otherwise forbidden to read electronic erotic fiction in your locality, please delete this message now. The story codes in the subject line are intended to inform readers of possible areas that some might find distasteful, but neither the poster nor the author make any guarantee. You should be aware that the story might raise other matters that you find distasteful. You read at your own risk. 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Any use of this work is permitted as long as the author's byline and e-mail address and this paragraph remain on the story. ===================== The Essence of Addiction by Taylor Norton jocon@tiac.net It was poor man's cold, cold like when the landlord turned off the heat and we children huddled together to keep warm. Cold like in solitary, when the asshole guard's stuck me in an unheated cell. "Rich man never knows a cold like this," Daddy used to say. His comments didn't make the night go by any quicker, or the cold any warmer. I was alone now. Daddy was ten years dead, too much whiskey, too much poor man's cold. I didn't miss him. He beat my mother to death and scarred my sisters in ways that would never heal. I heard the car start, startling me back to reality, releasing me from my memories. I crouched deeper into the bushes and watched the car pull out of the driveway. I smiled in spite of the cold. There were no more cars in the yard, all the lights were off, it was almost too perfect. The house was a big old New England mansion, years of hard weather had beaten most of the luster from the paint, years of neglect had turned the spacious lawns into a jungle. Still it spoke of old wealth, and I knew inside it must be filled with treasures. I was careful, the house seemed deserted but I'd been fooled before. Using the thick brush as a shield. I creepy- crawled around to the back of the house. As I got closer I realized the house was massive, much bigger than it had appeared from the front. In the back I found a small window, like the rest of the house the window was from another time; a wooden sash type window, locked from the inside. I peered into the window, there was no light in the room that lay beyond. I took a roll of tape and taped off a square at the top of the window. Using a small hand glass cutter I cut a large groove around the square, then tapped it out. The glass backed by the tape barely made a noise as it hit the floor inside. My hand fit easily though the square, I reached up and unlocked the window, then slowly pushed it up. In spite of its age the window moved noisily. I climbed inside. I took two steps into the room. The dark was total, impregnable to my eyes. It was then the fear hit me, chilling me, cutting to my very core. Fear like I'd never experienced, fear so intense I found myself frozen in place. Breaking and entering is always frightening, sneaking into a strange home in the middle of the night, never knowing what you're going to find, never knowing what's behind each door you open. It takes balls to work the B and E racket. This was not my first job, far from it, I was used to the rush, I could control the fear. This was different, there was something more here, something tugging on the edge of my conscience, warning me, begging me to turn and run. I started to back away, inexplicably terrified. I knew without knowing why that I had to get back out the window. Knew without knowing why that there was something inside the house worse than anything I'd ever known. Directly in front of me in the darkest part of the darkness, someone cleared their throat. "I have a gun." I shouted! Trying to sound hard and dangerous, trying to bluff my way through my fear. The way I did on streets when I was a boy, and prison when I was a man. "No you don't, you only have a knife, and a small one at that." A woman said. "Can you see in the dark?" I whispered. "I can see beyond the dark," She answered. I pulled my flashlight from my pocket, then aimed the light at the sound of her voice. Her beauty was a weapon, shocking me with its brilliance. She had the face of sculptured art. The face you see staring at you from museum walls. Her body was perfection itself, firm breasts with big pink nipples, long legs, wide hips. Her hair hung loose across her shoulders. Hair the color of the darkness, eyes darker still, shifting shadow eyes; eyes that glittered with power, eyes that flickered with madness. There was a presence about her, something queenly, something beastly. As if she was the very core of everything that was elegant, or the catalyst of everything depraved. I turned off the flashlight. Robbing her was out of the question. At that point I only wanted to survive her. "What is it you wanted to steal?" She asked. "I just needed some money for food." I answered, glad for the sanctum of the darkness. "So your hungry are you? Hungry like you were last year in Chicago? Or last month in Boston?" Her questions send chills down my back, the hairs on my neck stood on end. The knife in my hand dropped to the floor. In the silent darkened room the sound was deafening. In Chicago a man caught me inside his house and I had to use the knife. In Boston it was a woman, and I had done more then just cut her, much more. I thought these were my secrets alone, that only I was burdened with the shame of what I had done. "Accidents," I lied, ashamed at the depth or her knowledge. She laughed, a punishing, contemptuous laugh. There was no humor in her laugh. "I have what you need." She said, "Come to me." All-around candles were being lit. I saw the room was filled with figures in long hooded black robes. As even more candles were lit I saw the room was as big as a gymnasium. Only the woman was naked. She beckoned again, I went to her willfully. The fear was still with me, still begging me to flee, but she was stronger. She held out her arms and I went to her. Her body was coated with a slimy jell like oil. She took my head in her hands and pressed it against the warm flesh of her breasts. I licked the oil from her breast, drinking of her until I could drink no more. She tasted of the warmth of summer. She tasted like the first hit of morning coffee, or a shot of whiskey on an empty stomach. I can't remember all of what happened next. I know the dark haired woman pulled my pants down to my knees, I know that she spread her legs and forced me down on top of her. I know cloaked figures formed a circle around where we mated. I know they chanted in a language I could not understand. I know at some point the candles were blown out, at some point she took me in her arms and told me things no man should ever hear. ............................................................ That night Dacia prepared a fresh batch of the sacred oil. She mixed the ingredients into a huge iron kettle. Herbs and spices, water from a sacred springs, two jars of honey from her own consecrated hives along with a many times tested combination of poppy and opiums. The mansion had all of the modern connivances, including a stove large enough to heat the kettle. But Dacia knew that somethings need to be burned with the flame of a true fire. She hung the kettle on a rack in the fireplace. As it burned she added other things, bloody mangled things that she took from a burlap bag. Dacia sang in the old language as she stirred the mixture. When it was done she dipped her hand into the kettle and pulled out a large gob of the jell like substance. She rubbed it over her naked belly, over her breasts, she took a finger and slid a portion of the jell in the hole between her legs. Humming softly she walked back to the room where her new toy waited. Dacia was careful never to taste the oil. She tasted it once, years ago, and knew enough to never want to try it again. The oil tasted like the pain of a junkies need. ............................................................. That first week they kept me chained to a bed in one of the rooms. During the day they teased and taunted me. A blond women would lick and suck my penis until I was ready to explode them she would stop and laugh at my pain. This went on for hours and hours. Other women would come into the room and watch while the blond sucked me and they would make jokes about how small my penis was, or how flabby my naked body looked. The cruelest of them all was a tiny Chinese girl who had a shaven head and many tattoo's. She was no more then five feet tall with tiny little girl breast's and an almost boyish figure. She sat in a chair in the corner of the room and spent most of the day telling me how worthless I was, how pitiful I looked. She laughed loudest when the blond tortured me with her mouth, and when I begged the blond to allow me to cum the Chinese girl took her belt off and beat me until I was silent. When I needed to go the bathroom the Chinese girl would handcuff my hands and legs then unlock the collar and chain that bound me to the bed. She would guide me to the bathroom and watch as I did what I needed to do. They did not allow me to eat, or drink and I was constantly weak and sick. Perhaps the worst thing they did to me was on the second day. A fat black woman came into the room. She must have weighed 300 pounds. She stripped in front of me, her breasts sagged almost to her pot-belly, rolls of flesh hung from her arms and legs. The Chinese girl unlocked my collar and at first I thought that they were going to let me free, then I saw that the room was filled with many other women. The black women took a huge strap-on dildo and while four other women helped hold me down, she raped my ass with the dildo. The pain was intense, but the pain of the other women's laughter was even worse. Each night the black haired witch would come to me. Her body would be coated with the same jell and she would allow me to lick it from her body. One taste of her was enough to make me forget all the pain and torture. "My name is Dacia." she would tell me, "Say that you are mine." "Yes, yes." I would mumble still drunk from the taste of her. Then she would squat above me and lower herself onto my erect penis. She would rock her hips until I was cumming inside her warm wet hole and then she would pat me like a dog who has performed a new trick. "You are mine now." She would tell me, and when the week was over, I was. -------------------------------------------------------- I spent the next few years living in one of the rooms of her mansion. I was not alone, there were many others who came to serve. I was her favorite, the one she summoned the most often. When I asked her why, She told me it was because I was the one closest to the fire. I not sure what she meant; but I think it had something to do with Boston, and Chicago. For three years I did as she commanded. Sometimes there was a purpose to my missions, like silencing a disgruntled convert, or punishing someone who had irritated her. Sometimes she send me out to do things for no reason other then it gave her pleasure to do so. All around me were her students and her servants. A coven of her creation. It was a cold, heart dead place. A place where the most foul of evils were practiced daily, where the most degenerate perversions were common place. There seemed to be no limit to her appetite for chaos, or our willingness to serve. Finally I found I could take no more. I'd reached my limit. Everyone has such a place; rapist's who shutter at the very thought of murder, murderer's who grow outraged at the crime of child molesting. Everyone has a place they won't go. I didn't tell any of the others I was leaving. They were jealous of me and would run to tell her first chance they got. I waited until a time when they were all eating. I packed my bags and went down the pantry staircase then out to the back door. Dacia was sitting in a chair by the door. Two of her followers were kneeling beside her. "You can't leave me," She said. "I have to, don't worry I'm not ever going to tell anyone what happened here." "You don't understand," She said. "I'm not like other women." "I know." I was no longer sure she was a woman. She was something olden, something so baneful just the hint of such a creature sent the innocents to hang in Salem. I sensed she has always been here, always preying on the weakest in the pack. Always feeding on those like me, those closest to the fire. I backed out the door then ran across the driveway, I heard her laugh, but I kept running until I was a long way down the road. ............................................................. That night Dacia could not sleep. The servant who left angered her, there was time when no man would leave her. A time when she didn't need the sacred oil to bind a man to her. He had been a powerful tool. He had been the touch of her anger and the sword of her vengeance. Now he had deeply embarrassed her in front of all the young witches. She knew he would come back. The spell was woven with the taste of the sacred oil, and he would have to come back. But he had embarrassed her and she would make him pay. ............................................................. I ran into town and hot-wired a pickup truck. For a whole day I drove as fast and as hard as that old Ford would go. On the second day the pains started. My stomach felt as though it was tied into a knot. I kept driving but each mile seemed longer. I was dizzy all the time. Then the paranoia came, it forced me off the highway, plaguing me with the thought that every car was following me, that behind every window savage eyes glaring at me. Mad, irrational paranoia; part of me knew that, still I cowered in terror, still I was unable to go on. I found a motel room and spend the day laying on the floor of the bathroom, my body shaking like a low income high-rise. I could not eat, or sleep. At night the pains became unbearable, the cramps, the trouble breathing, the unshakable belief that I was dying. I called an ambulance. They kept me three days, taking test after test. Finally they shot me full of morphine and gave me a few blissful hours free of the pain. "Your having a physical withdrawal from long term dosages of narcotics." The doctor told me. "I haven't done any drugs." I answered truthfully. I'd been telling them that all along, nobody seemed to believe me. "Your blood test show traces of a substance's similar to heroin and cocaine. Their pretty excited at the lab, they think they found a new drug." "I don't know what your talking about." I answered truthfully. That night I started I started to think about the women. I felt a thirst like I had never known. A blinding, tearing, overpowering thirst. I felt a hunger, a hunger as constant as my heart beating or my lungs breathing. I stole a car from the parking lot and drove back to the house at the edge of the forest. She was waiting at the door. A score of followers waited with her; to bear testament to her power. She led me to her room in the bowels of the house. She took off the long black robe and dropped it the floor. Her body was drenched in a heavy layer of the sacred oil. She put her hands on my shoulders pushing me to my knees in front of her. She directed my head to the flesh of her belly. I licked from her, instantly feeling the healing. She tasted of the warmth of summer. She tasted like the first hit of morning coffee, or a shot of whiskey on an empty stomach. I trembled with ecstasy, I sighed with fulfillment. She laughed at me, spread her legs wide pushing my head further down. I drank from her again. She tasted of addiction. ===================== The Essence of Addiction by Taylor Norton -30- -- +----------------' Story submission `-+-' Moderator contact `--------------+ | | | | Archive site +----------------------+--------------------+ Newsgroup FAQ | ----