Slime and Ice

Big Tits

“You got it?” Sanchez asks after a long drag on his Marlboro.

His name’s an affectation: he’s lily white. He’s Mom’s sweet boy, cleans his room, does his own laundry, kisses her goodbye, sells joints and pills to highschoolers on Saturday night, then goes to Church on Sunday pretending to be sinless as starched white sheets.

Typical American shyster.

Sanchez is young, maybe late teens, more likely early twenties. Buzz-cut hair like a Marine’s, though he doesn’t have that mechanized killer look. Well-formed: broad shoulders, trim waist. Sleek like a powerful colt. Biceps, designed by steroids, inked with strange runes. Plaid boxers crowning sagging jeans.

Coral pink lips.

Those lips hypnotize Snake. Wanna feel those on my shaft. But Snake buries the thought. This is business. Business for the Disciples.

He drawls, “I got it.” Reaching down into his Varadero’s saddlebag, Snake pulls out two ounces of weed, packed in a mason jar wrapped in a brown paper bag.

Towering thunderclouds glower down on the graveled lot, tucked deep inside Umstead Park. Dark green pines bend under the heavy humid air. It feels like one of those ancient days when sorcerers gargled demonic syllables and called forth entities from blasphemous planes.

Sanchez extracts the jar from the bag, opens it, sniffs. He looks up. “Good shit.” He grins like a kid who’s just unwrapped his best birthday wish.

Snake spits. “Disciples always got good shit, man.”

Sanchez snorts. “Disciples! Disciples! You sound like Baptists. Who’s your god?” There’s an unexpected scalpel-like urgency to his question.

Don’t tell him.

That voice doesn’t come to him everyday, but Snake knows it well. He’s made love to its maker countless times. The words rumble like the Pacific Plate grinding against the North American Plate.

It’s the Leather Messiah’s voice, and the only way you can hear it is if you take one of the Messiah’s phalli up your butt.

If you’ve chosen Him, you obey the Leather Messiah. If you’re wise.

Yeah, the Disciples of the Leather Messiah. The biker gang. You’ve heard of them. America’s Most Wanted runs their photos most every Saturday. And a warning never to approach them unarmed.

The Disciples blew up that bank … you remember the stockbroker in the black face, his staring eyes, unbelieving that anyone could strike him. Me? Why? It was profit, just money, that’s all I wanted…I’ve got a family… Whiny fucker.

The Disciples are the ones who spiked the water in Branson, Missouri with good old LSD, triggered that geriatric orgy that scandalized Oprah and resulted in all those funny faces on the CBS Evening News. And the revolting clips on YouTube, before they were banned and shifted to Xtube.

The Disciples torched that GM dealership too. Even left their calling card: ropes and ropes of dried jism, criss-crossing on warped asphalt. Enough DNA to convict everyone of them.

You gotta be proud–hell, fucking arrogant–to be a Disciple. The Leather Messiah doesn’t intend for the meek to inherit the Earth.

Snake looks at Sanchez with less lust, more wariness. “That would be telling.”

Sanchez snorts.

“You gonna pay me or do I need this?” Snake clutches the pocket of his low-riding shorts, outlining a chunky Colt .45. His shorts drag down, revealing the upper limit of a patch of blond pubic hair. His body energizes as if on the cusp of murder, or sex.

“Hold it.” Sanchez tosses the weed to Snake, leans into his car–Dodge Viper, because Sanchez is stylish–opens the glove box.

Snake’s mouth waters. Nice butt. Awesome butt. Fuckable butt. Snake’s a top, you see, and he appreciates all comely males.

Sanchez thrusts a bundle of Andrew Jacksons to Snake. His eyes linger on the outline of Snake’s gun. Snake tosses the weed back to Sanchez and stuffs the money into a free pocket.

“Whatcha got there?” Snake asks.

Sanchez starts. “What?”

“Looks like a sword.” The hilt sticks up like a hard slender black cock. The scabbard is decorated strangely–silver medallions bearing a design Snake can’t quite make out. The weapon is set on the Viper’s passenger side floor, leaning against the seat.

Sanchez swallows, glances back at the car, glances at Snake, glances at the picnic tables empty of innocents at play. “Dude owed me some money for some roxies. Traded me that instead. His granddad got it on Okinawa. World War II. You know, like on the Hitler Channel.”

He lies, beloved. He wants to kill us.

A brief moment. Snake nods. “Cool.”

I want you to get that sword from him. And then I want you to kill him with it.

“Now?”

Sanchez frowns, puzzled. “Now what?”

Shut up. Not now. Wait. You’re pretty. But stupid.

Recovering quickly, Snake says, “We done?”

“Ahhh … ” Sanchez shifts his feet. “Might need some more. Different stuff. I’ve heard things … can you get it?”

Wariness maximizes. Different zorla sex stuff? Different stuff? Is he talking about– Snake plays dumb. “Weed? Sure.” He grins. “I’m a fuckin’ Disciple, man. We can get anything.”

“Ummm…where?”

“Where what?”

“Where do you get it from?”

“You a narc?”

“Hell no!”

“You talk like a narc.” Snake eases the Colt’s butt out of his pocket. His eyes regard Sanchez the same way a python savors a vision of fresh young doe.

“Calm down, man, calm down, calm down, just put the fucking gun back in your pocket, OK?”

I want you to leave. He needs a mystery to solve.

“Sure, man. Sure.” Snake turns and throws a leg over the saddle of his Varadero. His shorts ride lower, revealing a smooth expanse of hard buttock. He guns the engine. “Later. Cocksucker.” He throws a mock salute and roars up the gravel road towards Highway 70.

He’s going to follow you.

“You want me to loose him?” The wind whips Snake’s long blond hair. His Van Dyke feels itchy, as if a thousand little bugs are crawling around his lips. Sweat blooms on his naked chest. The reptiles tattooed on his arm swell as he twists the throttle.

No. Go home. Let’s fuck.

A boner awakens in Snake’s sweaty crotch.

Grinning, he flies down the highway, past the strip malls, past the chain restaurants, under the Beltway bridge, then roars down Glenwood Avenue towards Raleigh’s heart, where two semi-skyscrapers jut like half-hard cocks above the oaks and the asphalt.

Home is a rundown house buried under old oaks. Property of the Disciples of the Leather Messiah, who’ve taken lessons from the bankers and the lawyers and the other criminal classes and gone into real estate. It’s not impressive. Warped boards in the front porch. Peeling white paint. Driveway of cracked concrete. Open windows with Venetian blinds. Mailbox stuffed full of junk. Out of season azaleas huddling against the foundations. Scratched front door. Small garage with grimy windows.

But it’s private, and safe, and the cops don’t stop by because the Disciples slip fresh, crisp bills into sweaty yet eager palms.

It’s empty today. Other Disciples crash here, but today they’re out. The Leather Messiah spins a web, and none of His Disciples know what His final design is. The Disciples obey the Leather Messiah.

Snake waits, recumbent on the tattered couch, a fat blunt smoldering between his fingers. A mass of golden hair ensnares his shoulders. On his shoulder is a tattoo of unspeakable evil: tentacles and cocks writing in unwholesome bliss.

He’s stripped naked. His fat boner leans over his hard stomach, dripping liquid like molten diamonds. His nuts are ripe plums, eager to burst.

He waits, eyes bloodshot and dreamy. The heavy air, like held breath. The heat of a North Carolina summer. Thunder booms like the cannons of the gods at war.

Alone, except for television’s comedy of fear.

An announcer pauses, wipes slavering lips, plunges on. There’s been an outrage, a travesty, a disaster. Some insane country held elections–but America’s candidate was resoundingly defeated. How can this be? Electoral fraud, must be; no one could have any genuine objections to the American way of life. Poor benighted third-worlders, wallowing in their ignorance. Who will bring them shopping malls? Democracy? Doritos? Diabetes? Analysts debate strategy. The crucial question: shall we correct the electoral returns through starvation, by conventional bombing, or a traditional nuking?

Snake laughs uproariously. Demons rule this world. It’s just a matter of finding one most in accord with your personal tastes.

He hawks a huge wad of spit, languorously masturbates. He’s got a gutsplitter of a prong. Thick and long, with a fat urethra capable of vomiting cup after cup of hot biker semen. Apple-sized cockhead. Urethra thick as your finger. Veins web the shaft.

Do you like him?

Snake starts, relaxes, takes a long drag, holds it, soars higher and higher, a dizzy eagle reaching for the unobtainable sun. “Hot fucker. I’d like to plow him.”

Good. Maybe I’ll let you fuck him later. A pause. Do you love me?

The golden afternoon thrusts between the slats of the blinds, Apollo’s fingers caressing his lithe form, reaching for his fat cock.

“You fuck like a god,” Snake says. “But I don’t think I love you. How could I love someone like you? You’re not human.”

I am the Leather Messiah. Is that not enough?

“Love ain’t nothing but a good hot fuck.”

A chuckle like boulders falling in a cavern. Let me teach you what love is, then.

A sound burbles like slow boiling wax from the old furnace grate.

A frisson of excitement shivers up Snake’s cock. Heart beating fast, he stubs out the blunt, props himself up on his elbow to look.

Enter the Leather Messiah.

A mound of flesh lifts itself through the grate. It resembles, if you the uninitiated could porno indir bear to look at it, an octopus: bruise-colored flesh spotted with mushroom-colored circular blotches. The flesh is liquid and seemingly sentient, flowing smoothly around the grate bars as if the Leather Messiah is a colony of independent, sapient cells.

It shapes itself into a stump of slimy flesh, quivering. Pseudopods rise from the mass and form eyes. Roots ooze across the floor. Cilia rise like cat’s whiskers.

“You are beautiful,” Snake breathes.

He lifts his knees. The purple lips of his butthole beckons the beast towards the warm delight of human ass.

In other times, in other situations, Snake’s a top. But this is the Leather Messiah, for whom all life bottoms.

Like racing snakes the slender roots of the Leather Messiah’s shapeshifting flesh course across the carpet. They brush lightly at Snake’s feet, slithering around them. The Leather Messiah’s flesh is cold, cold as the Jello you’ve forgotten in the refrigerator. But it quivers with life, almost as if its on the verge of orgasm itself. Or perhaps it is orgasm itself, made flesh.

The Leather Messiah’s whiplike tentacles ooze over Snake’s body, embracing him. Snake shivers, moans. Small teeth appear at their tips and bite at his nipples. He jerks like a plucked violin string.

You are hot.

“I’m hot for you.” It sounds stupid even to Snake but he says it anyway. The Messiah has a way of eliciting truth. Hence His unpopularity in America.

I can fuck for hours, the Leather Messiah says, but we don’t have the time. Sanchez is near. He wants to kill us. But I need to cum.

The tentacles tighten on Snake’s body. The Leather Messiah lifts Snake off the couch. An atavistic impulse flares in Snake: twist! thrash! escape! It’s like the scene in the movie when the man-eating tree seizes the virgin and draws her in to be devoured. Snake, aware that ecstasy looms like a dawn after night, fights the impulse down.

Good boy.

The Leather Messiah cradles Snake. Turns him so he’s face downward. With slow strength that hints at the patient, unstoppable power of oak roots gnawing into the eternal earth, the Leather Messiah parts Snake’s legs.

Pretty.

The Messiah draw himself up. The demon is now a Sasquatch-sized mound of flesh. Five eyestalks focus on Snake’s lithe form, waving like sunflowers in a gentle breeze.

I dreamed of you when you were a boy. Small, and frail, and filled with lusts you didn’t understand. I looked at you and I saw your hair like spun gold, and I saw a body that Apollo himself would breed. And I wanted you. It would take time, but one such as I has all the time in the universe.

The Messiah’s chest irises open like a hard fucked butthole. A huge blunt mass of flesh thrusts out. It too is textured like octopus’ flesh, but it’s rigid as steel and dark as obsidian. Foot after foot emerges like a stallion’s cock slithering from its sheath.

The Messiah’s cockhead opens like a tulip. Five finger-like shapes, arranged pentagonally, beckon excitedly between the petals. From those ejaculators bulbs of gelatinous liquid drip. The worn carpet steams where they fall.

The demon moves between Snake’s legs. It arranges its eyes around the tableaux as if it were a director of pornographic photography.

“Do it,” Snake begs. “Do it to me.” His heart feels like a small bomb bursting inside of him. He wants it. Needs it. Again.

Hard?

“Yeah!”

You always wanted to be a demon’s bitch, didn’t you, boy?

“Yeah!”

The Leather Messiah cranks Snake’s legs open wider and wider, exposing Snake’s tight pucker to His gargantuan phallus. Pain shoots through Snake’s hips. He strains to lift his butt, angling it so the demonic phallus can plunder him.

Now it’s time to fuck.

The only god Snake ever imagined himself worshiping was one who went blind with lust. No chastity, no restraint, just one who could dissolve himself into the red fire which drives all living things.

The Leather Messiah draws Snake to Him. His gigantic phallus nuzzles between Snake’s buttcheeks. The ejaculators wriggle like fingers, smearing thick slime on the pucker.

The liquid, like the Messiah, is alive. The hot liquid courses over the pucker like wax. Snake sighs, eyes rolling up. The slime worms its way inside. Warmth dawns in the eternal night of a man’s gut.

The Leather Messiah laughs. The furniture rattles.

Breeding time, beloved!

He heaves forward and rams his phallus into his Disciple.

“Fuck!” Snake doubles up in pain, almost broken by the power of entry.

The Leather Messiah emits tongues from his shapeshifting flesh, eagerly drinking the tears leaking from Snake’s eyes.

Poor boy. You taste like wine.

Another thrust. Another foot of phallus. It flexes inside him, turning and twisting with Snake’s intestines, penetrating him further than any mortal ensest porno cock could. It bucks and leaps, strains against the confining colon. And penetrates. And thrusts. And probes. And slithers deeper, deeper, ever deeper into that succulent tightness you can only find in a man’s hot butt.

Doomed to live in a place where fucking is a matter of economics.

“Fuck me,” Snake grunts. He reaches up, embraces the Messiah. His fingertips plunge into the demon’s flesh.

Do you love me?

The demon’s phallus ripples inside of him. Withdraws until Snake’s anus bulges. Sinks inside. Snake’s toes curl.

Let me tell you about love.

The hard, urgent thrusting begins. The ejaculators lengthen into finger-like appendages, stroking Snake’s tender innards.

It’s not about money.

The Messiah churns faster in Snake’s guts.

If love is for money, then it’s not love–it’s parasitism. That’s your empire’s curse, you see. It was birthed in plunder, and it never escaped its birth.

“Fuck me!” Snake reaches up and embraces the deliquescent flesh. A surge of electricity explodes through him, and he writhes and twists and bucks on the rutting phallus. He feels as if he’s drowning in erotic ooze.

You’re a pleasing boy, and your body burns with the need for rut, and that is why I chose you to be one of my Disciples. But you don’t know what love is.

“I got … three feet … of love … inside me!” Snake’s head whips from side to side, spittle flying.

Dim pot-addled boy.

The Messiah’s eyes turn fiery.

Love is a kinship. The willingness to do anything so that someone else … something else … may live. Your universe was born in the death spasms of a previous universe … and if you wish to escape the legacy of its birth, you must strive for life.

“… cumming … ” Snake murmurs, and slathers his chest with ropes of jism.

Ah, you feel good, boy. You please me. You give in to lust, the fire of life. I burn to cum to. I am the Leather Messiah. I am here to liberate your people.

The demon’s thrusts become more frantic.

!!!ORGASM!!!

The demon’s phallus erupts. Scalding fluid rushes into the blond biker, and Snake bucks, arcing his back against the iron embrace of the Leather Messiah’s tendrils, helplessly cumming again, fountaining life in the demon’s slimy embrace.

Long moments pass, human and demon united in the sluggish retreat from Elysium.

The phallus shivers, softens, slurps from Snake’s hole. Greenish ichor pours out. Gently the demon lowers Snake’s body to the floor.

Snake lays, panting, smearing the jism on his chest. Demon seed burbles from his butthole.

The Leather Messiah’s form melts until He is a giant amoeba pulsing on the floor.

That boy. Sanchez. I want him dead.

“I’ve never killed anyone,” Snake gasps. He stuffs two fingers up his butt, scoops out spoonfuls of the Leather Messiah’s seed, devours it. His eyes roll up. Marijuana’s high is dilute compared to the ecstasy blazing through him.

There’s a first time for everything.

“Why?”

He is my enemy. He worships powers who oppose my designs here. He wants to kill us. Destroy everything I stand for. Wipe out my Disciples.

“I didn’t think you could be killed.” Snake wants to doze. Fuck this Lord of the Rings crap. No quests. Just weed, and sex, and–

There’s peril for the disobedient.

The sharp edge in His voice quells the urge to sleep. “All right. All right! Sorry. Forgive me. I’m human.”

I love you because you’re human. Get dressed.

“Why?”

He’s coming.

“But why do I need to get dressed?”

Because he’s got the sword and he might cut your cock off.

So it’s over. This special moment with his god. It feels like the end of summer, when winter’s cold claws begin to tear the leaves from the living forest.

Snake slips back into his shorts. But he leaves his semen there on his chest, glistening, oblong medals celebrating primal lust, drying to curly flakes. The smell is pungent.

The Messiah flows toward the grate and retreats to the plane of his existence.

The throaty roar of a Dodge Viper with tailpipe modifications stops in the driveway.

Kill. The stark word burns in Snake’s mind. Oh yes, he’s thought of it. The Disciples live a dangerous life, but they’re for anarchy and freedom, not death. Yet they’re not untainted with that crime. Until the Leather Messiah triumphs their world is war. Snake’s not killed. Thought of it, yes. Yearned to do it, like when some cop grills him. But he’s still cherry. White. Chaste.

Kill!

Can he do it? Can he kill someone with coral pink lips and an eminently fuckable butt?

Sanchez knock is loud and firm.

Snake seeks a moment to collect himself. “What do I do?”

Answer the door, nitwit.

Sanchez shifts uneasily as the door opens. He holds the sword. It’s sheathed. His Honda idles in the driveway, the door open. Behind him the sky is gunmetal gray, rapidly darkening. Tall pillars of cloud boil. Lightning dances like titanic fireflies.

“Seppuku?” grins Snake, shoving his hand into his pocket and cupping his palm around the grip of his .45. Do it now, master?

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