53 - The Devil's Prepuce

"Folks got faith in Dagon's Hollow," Leroy said. "It's just more...personal. Little shrines at home. Crucifixes on the wall. People want to go to church, they drive to the next town over. People want to feel the spirit, they do that at home."

He held the candle up. It was a black candle. "This is a story about faith. I call it...

THE DEVIL'S PREPUCE

Myra MacGregor collected the devil. The religious studies department of Dagon's Hollow wasn't particularly large, couldn't offer much to researchers and scholars in terms of resources or money. What it did offer was academic freedom to dip into the stranger and darker aspects of the field. As long as they taught their course load, they had carte blanche.

So MacGregor taught class after class of bored freshmen. They smiled at the bespectacled woman who liked to dress in dark men's suits and grow her hair long, the lenses of her prescription glasses tinted to keep the light from her sensitive eyes. She taught them about Christian heresy and shamanism, about modern Wicca and ancient fertility religions. An easy grader, always willing to pass a freshman quarterback or give a sympathetic extension when a student's grandmother died for the third time that semester.

A few graduate students and fellow professors had visited her home over the years. There, they admired the bookshelves stuffed with works on her favorite subject, the devil. The most valuable volumes were held in locked, glass-fronted cabinets. A 15th-century copy of the Malleus Maleficarum. A first edition of de Plancy's Dictionnaire Infernal. A copy of the Satanic Bible, autographed by Anton LaVey. She even had, on one wall, a framed leaf from a Gutenberg bible, including Zechariah 3. Someone had underlined every reference to Satan on the page in red.

No one saw her real collection. The one she kept in the basement.

Time and money can buy books and toys. Yet MacGregor's most personal research was not concerned with what turned up on eBay. It was concerned with the layout and security systems of certain libraries, museums, and churches. She planned each heist with exacting care, and carried them out with a daring that would have shocked her colleagues.

A tooth that came from no human jaw. The shallow skull bowl that had been used at an actual Black Mass conducted by La Voisin. A rib carved with odd characters. Then there was her latest prize. What she had taken from a black chest beneath a cathedral's altar.Sshe had been interrupted on the way out, and her crowbar had caught the guard in the face. MacGregor still bore a scar, where his bullet had grazed her side.

The strip of supple skin was a brown so dark it was almost black. About 4 1/2 inches long. Just the sight of it sent a shiver down Myra's spine. The normal human foreskin was about 2 1/2, maybe 3 inches. This spoke of a member whose dimensions were inhuman. Bestial.

Devilish.

"Oh my sweet Satan," she said, as she gently pressed her lips against the dark skin. "Oh my Dark Lord. How I hunger for your touch..."

Kneeling on a cushion, Myra's hand slid down her pants, fingers pushing through the dark pubes around her cunny. It was a private form of worship, as her fingers pushed into her cunny. Mind focused on the image of Satan's cock. Of the unholy power and majesty that belonged to the adversary of God.

Night after night, she would worship her unholy relics. Huff and groan as she indulged in a dark faith that was unique and personal. Steeped as she was in Satanic lore, she knew that her conception of the Devil was a syncretic picture—a mingle of Christian, Jewish, Islamic, and Yezidi dogma that borrowed attributes of old pagan gods and spirits. Yet the figure that emerged in her vision was of an almost-human figure, ape-like, hunched, with an immense prick like a horse that dangled between hairy, goatish legs.

The Devil had thousands of representations, and Myra MacGregor knew them all. Her sexual fantasies and religious devotion cycled through image after image. Seeing in each the terrible masculine power and beauty, the dark majesty that reflected some facet of the more ultimate and timeless evil that lay behind them all. The faceless elder idea of an oppositional entity, the chaos to order, the dark to light. The nameless power that Myra had long ago pledged herself to, body and soul.

One night, after a particularly long and exhausting period of devotions, Myra lay naked on the floor of her cellar. Her pussy was inflamed and sore. She panted, dizzy, the room spinning. Her nipples ached, and long, thin scratches covered her back and buttocks from the small flail with which she had whipped herself into increasing sexual frenzy.

She achieved a state of altered consciousness. The shadows of the room seemed to flicker. Her vision narrowed. There was a sense that she was staring down at her body from above, the middle-aged woman who had frigged herself to the verge of **** or madness.

Which is when the black miracle occurred.

Something moved, from the darkest part of the cellar. Something hairy and apelike, snuffling. Stooped, it's heavy sack dragging along the ground. Her consciousness wavered as a face that was not a face came into view. A hot, rigid length rubbed against her sore and sensitive cunt. The pain of that entrance pierced her to her core. Her back arched as she was pushed beyond her limits. For a moment, her mind went blank.

Myra's heels drummed on the devil's ass as it sawed its long, dark length in and out of her hairy cleft. Her hands tore at its pale skin, her exhausted body screamed at her, driven on by a fanatic faith, as true and real as any nun who pledged her troth to a pale and absent Christ. She did not fear the fangs at her throat. The sharp stab of pain when the cock pushed too deep.

She did not even fear the other shapes that emerged from the shadows of the cellar. Cocks rigid as they snuffled the air.

Determined to love the devil in all of his forms.

"Was it Satan that came for her?" Leroy asked. "Or did something else come in response to her prayers? Come out of the dark, in response to a need, feasting on an offering placed at the altar to the Prince of Darkness? It didn't matter. As far as Myra MacGregor was concerned, her faith had been rewarded."

So saying, he blew out the candle.