For the second time in less than a week, I woke up in a different location to where I had lost consciousness.

Far less comfortable than the previous awakening, this time, I lay on bare, uneven rock. At least it's warm, I thought, and then winced, as the dried come that encrusted my body and had welded me to this floor pulled at my skin when I attempted to get up. I remained still and tried to assess my surroundings.

Vague recollections of the previous night in the Temple of Baphomet returned to me, but it took me a moment to convince myself they were not some feverish, drunken wet dream, brought on by whatever was making my head throb like that. But no, congealed spunk oozing slowly from my arse didn't happen after a mere dream.

That was one intense fuckfest! I got hard just thinking of what Hashim and I had done together. He really delivered on that promise to show me pleasure beyond any I had experienced. Right before feeding me to a giant cuntflower.

I sat bolt upright at that memory of how the impossibly long fuck session had ended, ignoring the pinch and sting from breaking the semen seal.

Gone were the volcanic basalt and polished obsidian of the Temple complex. The liver-coloured surface of the tunnel I found myself in had an organic character, showing no evidence of being carved by hand or erosion, and glistened in patches with a thin film of slime. Drawn to the closest such patch, I cautiously prodded it. When I pulled my finger away, a strand stretched away with it, snapping and then dangling from the tip. Fascinated, I could see that it gave off a very faint light.

The throb came again, not a headache as I had thought on waking, but a real sound, muffled as if coming from a great distance. I waited, heart pounding, but it did not return.

What now? I wondered. Guidance from the Disciples of Baphomet had been sparse, cryptic, and right at that moment, completely useless:

“Allow the Child and Their infant siblings to feed first.”

“If you sense hatred, run!”

There had been no, “Go straight, take the third left, and follow the yellow brick road.”

I looked one way and then the other. One direction was subtly brighter, or at least, not as dim. Go towards the light, I suppose. I stretched, the thin carapace of hardened bodily fluids crackling and set off.

Trudging down a dark, winding passageway soon lost its novelty value, lulling me into a complacent trance, so I tripped over the first corpse. Never having seen a dead human body in the flesh before, once the shock had worn off, morbid curiosity took over. There was enough glowing muck coating the walls to provide the equivalent of candlelight, illuminating the features clearly when I bent down to look.

Naked, male, and clearly a Nazi. Eighty-eight of the bastards had been sent as “food for Baphomet’s Children” in the prelude to the ritual that sucked me into this place, so it would be a safe assumption in any case, but the swastika tattoo on his forehead would have been a giveaway in the street.

Fucking Charles Manson wannabe.

The other body art on his bloating skin was equally distasteful. I did not need to be a forensic pathologist to know the cause of death was related to the bruising around the neck.

One less turd to beat the shit out of me, I suppose.

What is that? Something wriggling?

Movement — under the skin. I backed away. When his chest jolted, accompanied by the crack of a breaking ribcage, I ran.

Ran until I hit a dead end.

Gulping air, I turned, but could neither see nor hear anything following me. I examined the obstacle blocking my path. Ridges radiated out from a peephole in the centre, and a thicker coating of goo rendered the surrounding area better lit. Hooking my fingers into the hole, I pulled at it, but it was hard rock.

Becoming frantic, I ran my hands all over the bumpy surface but found nothing that would give. My fingers reached the edge, and, unable to think of anything else to do, I felt along the wall, too. One patch was brighter than the rest and featured a lump at its centre, warmer and oddly satisfying to the touch, the way a pebble can be when it fits your hand perfectly. Giving it a squeeze for reassurance, more goo bubbled out and, with a sticky snap, the hole widened enough for me to fit my head. I gave the protrusion another squeeze, and the opening kept expanding until I was able to pass through.

Rustling echoing down the corridor from where I had come tempered my relief. The moment I let go of the bump, the ring began contracting again, so I hastily stepped through the circular doorway, wiping the luminescent secretion on my hip. Ten steps later, the gap had shrunk back to its original size, but I did not hang around to find out if that was enough to stop whatever dwelt inside the corpse.

I came to a junction just as the throb sounded again, clear enough to count the individual pulses — six, then silence. Although such low-frequency notes made it hard to tell, I had the impression that they came from the right. For lack of any other factor for choosing a direction, I took that one and reached another round seal a hundred paces later.

In less of a hurry this time, I explored the adjacent wall until I encountered a bump and squeezed it. Again, the alien door widened enough to accommodate me, slowly contracting once I released the activator.

I took the right tunnel again at the following intersection and then another right, only to find I had gone around in a circle, so I tried the next left. Two more junctions later, I again discovered I had walked in a loop, even though I was positive I had been descending the whole time.

MC Escher must have designed this place, I sighed, more bemused than frustrated, and continued on.

Despite the impossible circularity that periodically made me feel I was trapped in a Klein bottle, I did seem to be getting somewhere. The temperature had gone from being a little too cool for wandering around starkers to a more comfortable — if humid — warmth. Sickly purplish-brown rock had morphed into a more pleasing crimson, and the light-giving mucus coated them evenly, making it easier to see, if more treacherous where it had spread over the floor. Although I had come across another five corpses, they were unoccupied, and I had heard no further scuttling or slithering to indicate pursuit, so I was almost enjoying my stroll.

Yet another fork in the passageway loomed ahead, but this time, voices came from one side.

I hesitated. Hob-knobbing with the far-right had never been high on my to-do list, and even less so in the nude with ravenous demon-spawn on the loose. However, those demons need to eat to be safe, so if I meet them alone before they’ve had their fill, well…

I assessed myself. Much of the filth from the ceremony had flaked off, but not completely. If I still smelled of come, my nostrils had become accustomed to it. I chewed my lip, fleshing out the germ of an idea.

Leaning against the wall, I scraped myself along it, gathering luminous gunk. It had a pleasant, creamy texture, but I resisted the urge to savour the sensation. I spread it around, trying to make it look like I had fallen in it.

Passable, I decided. I’ll tell them the monster attacked me and I managed to get away.

Filled with trepidation, I headed towards the voices. The passage opened into a large chamber, containing close to fifty fascists — naked, I noted with relief, so the corpses had not been an exception, and I would not stand out.

“Hey, where the fuck did you come from?” The sentry challenging me was a longhaired, slightly overweight metalhead with patchy facial hair. He did not seem too bright.

“That way.” I pointed vaguely over my shoulder. “Thing came at us, grabbed Varg, and I ran.”

“Varg?’ You don’t mean the ‘Varg’, surely?” Shit. Of all the names I could have chosen for an imaginary friend, why did I have to pick that of the white supremacist black metal poster boy? Well, poster dirty-old-man these days.

“No, of course not,” I said dismissively, noting the suspicion evident in his eyes. Shame though, I would enjoy watching him being dismembered.

“Real name was Tarquin,” I shrugged, my stomach sinking as others gathered around to interrogate the newcomer. Some I recognised as gang members Hashim had pointed out to me the night of the gig. “He insists, well, insisted now, I guess, on us calling him ‘Varg’.”

“Tarquin sounds like a wanker,” one of the skinheads in the group said. I was just relieved that they had accepted a ridiculous name like ‘Tarquin’ as genuine. My attempt at smiling fizzled on the stony faces it met.

“What attacked you?” snarled one. “Describe it.”

“It happened so fast, and further up, you know, where it’s darker—”

“Then why have you got so much of that glowing shit all over you? You look like a hippie who just ate a barrel of glow sticks.”

“Oh, I, um,” I floundered. “I tripped later. I thought I heard it behind me and ran straight into one of those weird doors.”

“Hmmm…” Unconvinced, the group scrutinised me, menace and dislike evident. “You didn’t see anything?”

“You mean the demon?”

“You fucking metalheads!” spat the skinhead at the back, punching a pale, blond guy who I would have felt sorry for were it not for the SS logo tattooed on his chest. “Always wizards and fucking demons! We had this argument. They’re clearly aliens in league with the Jewish Illuminati. Probably shape-shifting lizards. I always thought David Ike was just a useful, money-spinning nutcase, but maybe he’s onto something.”

I did my best to resist rolling my eyes. Yeah, shape-shifting-lizard-Jews is totally logical, fuckwit.

“Well, there might have been something that looked like tentacles,” I ventured, unsure of what they would have seen themselves. I glanced up. “Tentacles!”

“Yeah, okay, we heard you the firglglgl—­!!!”

Only I saw the puce limb descend from above, wrap itself around his neck, and then yank him upwards. It happened so fast the others did not understand where he had gone. Then a dozen cat-sized shapes dropped from the middle of the ceiling, followed by wet, gargling screams from those on whom they had landed.

The floodgates of panic opened. Some headed for a passage on the far side, but those near me charged the way I had come, and I joined them.

Sentry guy fell behind, and I made the mistake of looking back to see if he was okay. He was not. Something far larger than the other monsters seized all four of his limbs and began pulling them apart. I turned the corner just as his scream became inhuman.

The crimson of the caves gave way to peach. Whenever we inevitably slipped and knocked into the sides, we found them more yielding beneath the layer of slime, like thin rubber over concrete, rather than rock. Each junction we came to triggered a heated argument and split in the group, but they were all either oblivious to the six recurring beats or ignored them, as they never came up in the discussion. I stuck with whoever took the tunnel headed towards them.

Unfortunately, this meant that I ended up with Ian and Stuart, the two skinheads Hashim had told me murdered eight gay men that he knew of, and Stephen, their Hitler hipster cop accomplice who had covered their tracks.

By the time we stopped, my legs burned, and pain like a knife-wound stabbed my side. The pause was not out of any consideration for my comparatively poor fitness, but due to coming to another intersection, this one with eight options.

I backed off as the discussion began once more. Strangers arguing is awkward at the best of times, even without knowing that they are violent homophobes. The atmosphere of animosity seemed to grow, and the police officer ceased gesticulating to stare at me with a puzzled but angry expression as if suddenly recollecting something unpleasant.

“You, what’s your name?” He began moving towards me.

“Chris.” I retreated.

“Which group were you with? I don’t remember you from the freaks’ dungeon, and I have a photographic memory.”

“Maybe we should discuss this another time?” I pointed over his shoulder. He just got angrier, refusing to turn and look as he strode closer until Stuart gave a strangled gurgle.

Stephen turned to his friend, who threw him a pleading look. A boneless, deep purple arm gripped his throat. An instant later, he disappeared through a gap in the ceiling a fraction too narrow for his shoulders, the latter yielding with a dull snap.

We all pounded down the leftmost tunnel, crashing into another door and colliding with each other. I fumbled down the side, finding the trigger mechanism easily since these had been getting longer the further we descended through this labyrinth. The apertures were also faster in both their opening and closing movements, so we all dived through before it could wink shut again.

Our haste led us to slip on the steep slope on the other side. Scrabbling vainly to slow ourselves, we accelerated down the winding chute in a channel of slick sludge until we gave up and prepared ourselves for impact. The landing was soft, although Ian's elbow in my ribs was not. It took a while for the three of us to disentangle ourselves, a process not helped by their whining about touching other men’s bodies. Finally, we all stood up and looked around.

We were in another chamber, roughly circular and ten metres across, though a thin mist made it appear larger. There was no exit but plenty of small fist-sized holes in the pink-hued walls with slimy protrusions nearby.

Picking one, I started towards it and stumbled over a pile of bones. Human bones, from the fragments of ribcage and partial hand frozen in a reaching gesture. From my new vantage point of the floor, I noticed strange decorations hung from the ceiling, dark droplets falling sporadically from a few.

“What the fuck are they?” Ian was staring at them, too.

I stood underneath the nearest one, moving aside just in time to miss the drip that splashed onto the floor. Blood. I peered up again. Greasy hair — closely resembling that of the sentry who had accosted me earlier — dangled from a slab of flesh, pierced through by a barb on the end of a rope-like growth. A cluster nearby looked older, the underside dark from dried, congealed fluid. Based on the smell, which brought to mind the time I got drunk and forgot about the meat for the cat I had left defrosting in the oven, I judged them to be three days old — the time since the concert in the castle.

“Scalps,” I said quietly.

“Seriously?” Stephen squinted up at them. “Shit! What’s that about?”

“Monster must be a Tarantino fan,” I answered, counting them. “Aldo Raine will be pleased. They’ve exceeded a hundred.”

“Huh?”

“Haven’t you seen Inglorious Basterds?”

“I don’t watch anything made by that SJW cunt. Isn’t that one full-on Antifa bullshit?”

“A good movie’s a good movie,” I shrugged. Anger and hatred were building again, but I felt more confident.

One hundred and eighteen scalps. That accounted for the eighteen fascists killed at the concert, the fourteen in the Temple and the majority of the eighty-eight Hashim said were sent here. Two barbs remained unoccupied.

Eighteen, fourteen, eighty-eight. I snorted as I realised they were being slaughtered in numbers so sacred to the far-right. Surely not a coincidence! Best not point out there are only two left, though.

“We should start finding a way out if you — I mean we — don’t want to end up as more trophies.”

Stephen looked like he was going to punch me but grudgingly conceded to my logic. We spread out, trying the protrusions. Larger again than those for previous doors, they hung down, a little floppy.

“They look like dicks,” Ian spat. “I’m not touching them!”

He was right. They had no bulbous end, but with the fleshy colour of the walls here, they did look very phallic. I tentatively wrapped my hand around one. Warm and soft, though far smoother than skin. I stroked it gently, and it stiffened.

“That is so fucking gay!” Ian laughed. Stephen tightened his lips and narrowed his eyes, suspicions apparently confirmed.

“Laugh all you like, but it is opening.” I jerked at it faster, and the gap reached the width of my thigh, but then the knob erupted, spewing goo, and the hole winked closed again. “Fuck! You start trying, too. There might only be one actual door here!”

“You find it.” Ian crossed his arms over his toned chest. I tried not to think of my earlier views of nude Nazi buttocks running in front of me or to look at his semi-hard dick, and I hoped my own would not betray me. Reminding myself he was a fascist scumbag who killed people like me helped knock the erotic tension from the moment, and I moved to the next wall cock. Again, it stiffened under my grip, but again it ejaculated too early and went flaccid.

“This will take forever!” Stephen gave Ian a shove. “Choose a hole and twiddle its knob, just pretend it’s your own or something.”

“Jeez, don’t yank on it, you wanker!” I called to Ian on seeing the violent way he was attacking his lever. “If you break the lock for the only door, we’ll be trapped!”

“You’re the fucking wanker,” he retorted, sulkily, but softened his technique. He was rewarded with a small release of goo, but it kept widening.

“Yes!” He pumped harder, and the opening grew, enough for his head, then his shoulders.

“Okay, gay boy,” he said, “I’ll give you this one, but later we need to have a talk about how easy you find rubbing dicks that aren’t your own!”

Malice poisoned the air, and this time it originated from where he was standing. The hole expanded to his height, and he cheered, turning to beckon to us.

“Come on, pooft—”

He never finished his insult. In the blink of an eye, he went from a bigot standing by the door to a bloody smear on the contracting edge of his chosen hole.

“Wrong door,” I muttered.

Stephen and I exchanged looks and began working furiously on the shafts in our hands. Mine was the first opening to get past head width, and when his rod sprayed its slime in his face before going soft, he swore and, scowling, stamped across the room to me. His loathing was palpable, but it was not just him. The memory of Hashim’s words rang in my ears, “If you sense hatred, run!”

As soon as the door dilated enough to admit him, Stephen almost bowled me over in the race to get through. I followed, not wanting to be the hundred and twentieth scalp by mistake, and we raced along the squelchy passageway, barely able to see through the dense fog.

The dazzling light getting ever brighter, our only guides at each intersection were the six low beats, striking closer together each time. We passed through several sets of the bizarre, winking doors, me opening them as Stephen stood nearby wearing a look of disgust. Each took longer to open, and I found more success with sensual rather than mechanical strokes. They really are cocks.

I stopped to catch my breath at the next fork and found my unpleasant companion staring at me when I cocked my head to listen to the six distant thuds.

“They’re getting louder,” I told him.

“What are?”

“Those beats.”

“What are you talking about? This place is silent as a grave. Although that probably means that thing is busy eating.” He did not seem too cut up about losing his mates.

“You don’t hear them? Every minute or so now, it goes, ‘doorrv, doorrv, doorrv, doorrv, doorrv, doorrv!’”

“Shut the fuck up, weirdo. I didn’t want to meet up at the shitty metal gig, but those pricks insisted. Way too many of you weak, basement-dwelling race warrior wannabes diluting our movement.” He looked at me with disdain. “Answer me this: why do I keep imagining you sucking a Jew’s cock?”

“Huh? I don’t know.” My mouth had gone dry — I never was a good actor, even when not scared half to death.

“No, I think you do.” He advanced. “It’s too vivid to be my imagination. I never imagine fucked up shit like that. You were sucking a Jew’s cock at the gig, but we couldn’t do anything. You’re in on this!”

“I really don’t know what you mean!” I backed away. That feeling of malevolence returned, a wave of overwhelming hate. It would not surprise me if it resembled what this angry held inside him all the time, but I was now certain it emanated from the monster hunting us.

“You do! Somehow, you did that right in front of us all! Well, you may as well be useful. Maybe that thing will stop for a snack if I leave a fucking Jew-loving queer for it. There’s only one more hook back there now.”

“Actually, Stephen,” I said, straightening, “my best friend is Jewish, but you all saw me sucking Lebanese cock. Learn the difference between the people you hate.” I focused on a point above him. “You’re right, though. The Child of Baphomet does look peckish.”

“Oh, the old ‘look behind you’ trick, nice try, race traitor.” He lunged, but his fist froze two inches from my nose. He glanced at his wrist, puzzled. Realisation dawned. “Oh, fuck!”

I fled, wet thuds, grunts and expletives coming from behind me. Two twists of the tunnel later, I crashed straight into a door, this one shining yellow. Frantically, I searched for the lever to open it and found it to the left of where I knelt, at head height — five inches long, two thick, and far more phallic than those we had hitherto encountered.

Slapping feet and yells approaching pushed me to test a theory, and I stuck out my tongue to lick the wall cock, expecting it to taste gross. Honey! Not quite, but that was the closest flavour I could compare it to. As Stephen appeared, dragging one foot behind him twisted at an angle that feet really should not go, I began eagerly fellating it. Syrupy, delicious goo discharging from activator rewarded my efforts immediately, the circular hole stretched wide open, and I rolled through.

“Haha! Thank you, poofter!” Stephen limped towards me, blood and teeth drooling down his front.

I scuttled back on my arse as the door began to close.

“No!” He shuffled faster but stumbled. Behind him, a swirling mass of purple-black feelers slithered around the corner. The cop dragged himself to the rim of the closing doorway. “Help me, you worthless fuck!”

I hesitated as the ring of yellow contracted around him.

However repulsive, the man is still a human being in fear of his life. I stood up and smiled; decision made. On the other hand, he wanted to kill me for who I am.

“Bella ciao, motherfucker!”

Stephen’s eyes widened, whether from recognition of the Italian anti-fascist anthem or the arrival of hungry demon-spawn, I will never know. With a final “Fuck!” his head disappeared.

The hole snapped shut with this obstacle removed, trapping a lone hand. I watched in fascinated horror as this first twitched, clenched, and then relaxed, going limp. Inappropriate giggles overtook me as I realised what the door reminded me of — a sphincter!

My laughter died when one finger gave a wiggle, the tip bulging unnaturally from something pushing against the skin.

I ran.

The path took me down, sometimes on a gentle slope that made running easier, other times on one so treacherously steep that it forced me to steady myself with one hand, and even then I would end up sliding most of the way. The heat reached unbearable levels, and the steam became near impenetrable, but the light changing to a near blinding white convinced me that I was nearing some sort of an end. I just hoped it was not a sticky one.

The drop took me by surprise, but I rolled and stood up immediately. A dead end.

Worse — a trap. Though the fall had not hurt me, thanks to the spongey floor ankle-deep in glowing gloop, the slippery walls were too high to scale and devoid of holes suggesting an exit. I started exploring the surface up close in case a door was sealed so tight as to be invisible, on high alert for that aura of dread that proceeded the creature’s assaults.

My hand brushed a bump in the wall, and I paused. It was only small, but everywhere else was smooth. Gently, I began patting it, and it grew, and grew, transforming into a magnificent, anatomically accurate, incandescent white phallus, the size of my arm.

“Yes!” I yelled, giving in to triumph “This must be the way out!”

Relief surged through me as I pondered how best to stimulate the enormous dong. More than that — euphoria, and a wonderfully calming feeling of peace, of being loved. It dominated my senses, so I barely felt the trickle of slime on my shoulder, pooling above my collarbone. The surface tension broke, and it crawled down my chest, a lover’s caress.

That, I did notice. Slowly, I looked up.

Salivating purple jaws filled my vision, three rows of razor-sharp teeth just visible through the parted lips. If the maw opened but a few inches further, my whole head would fit inside.

I swallowed. How many people died for the squealing ball of flailing arms I saw in the Temple to reach this size? Then I corrected myself. How many Nazis. Hardly as bad as eating random innocents.

When I considered what they would have done to others had they lived, I knew I loved this creature for it. I perceived no threat, only adoration, despite the severed ear hanging by a loop of bloodied skin from the corner of the dripping maw. A tentacle flicked it away to land with a splat somewhere off to the side.

My attention turned to the smooth, opalescent snout leading to eyes of malachite flecked with gold beneath lashes of obsidian, one on either side of the demon’s cranium and a third on the top. Surrounding it waved a medusan corona of purple feelers, an oily sheen creating eye-watering patterns as they moved. Terror should have been ravaging my mind before such a spectacle, but the sensation of being adored was all-consuming and infectious.

Beautiful.

One of the prehensile appendages extended towards me, and I raised my arm. The wet tip met my palm and divided, six tendrils, soft as velvet underneath their layer of mucus, slipping between my fingers and wrapping warmly around my hand, a lover meshing Their fingers with mine.

I gasped, as invisible limbs probed my brain, flashes of memory passing between us: Their near-endless childhood of starvation, roaming these caves for the odd unfortunate meat that passed into this dimension; my own upbringing, neither traumatic nor happy; Their capture and coming to sentience in the womb of the Disciple Kylie; my adolescence of confusion and mild but constant conflict with my parents over sexuality and music; and finally our destinies merging, our fates bound together in the ceremony. I understood its power now, the purpose of Their second birth at the same time as the fuckfest of a ritual to open the portal back here — the introduction of our minds to each other in preparation for our final, inevitable joining.

Sweet Child of mine.

The warm caress wound up my forearm, and I laughed as the opening riff to that song sounded in my ear. No words came, audibly or telepathically, but I sensed Their mirth at my reaction to that demonstration of Their power. I lifted my other arm and smiled.

“Come, my Child of Baphomet. It seems you know what to do.”

They tilted Their head, limbs languidly feeling around my other hand and my feet, splitting and twisting, a fast-growing tree root-finding anchor spots in the bedrock. I looked at my right arm, covered with writhing, living rope up to the elbow. The grip tightened, pulling it away, and I turned back to those emerald eyes. Mental feelers soothed me, urging me to trust it, and I relaxed. My feet left the ground, and They lifted me to Their eye level, completely at the mercy of this god- or demon-spawn.

So close, the luminescence of Their epidermis reached through my visual cortex, sucking me in. There were patterns within patterns without a true pattern, fractals that went in three dimensions, curls and spirals that mirrored the movements of Their appendages, and like the Disciples’ the tattoos that were not tattoos, it appeared to move without moving. Inhaling, Their scent curled into my nose. Undeniably sexual, with flowery undertones — lily, frangipani, a hint of honeysuckle, and a slight spiciness, neither cinnamon nor nutmeg, but of that ilk — these aromas wafted their way to my brain, accompanied by a low, harmonious hum.

They spun me serenely, investigating my pale, skinny, hairless body. My long hair, still matted in clumps with the scum of the past twenty-four hours, flopped across my face. Two glistening tentacles brushed it from my cheeks and then remained there, stroking just firmly enough not to tickle. I shivered, despite dripping with sweat in the heat of the chamber, and pushed back, encouraging Them. One pressed against me, dividing like the others to encircle my ear and explore my scalp. A stab of fear went through me then, remembering the ghastly ceiling ornaments of the last chamber, but reassurance flooded my mind.

“Do you have a name?” The Child cocked its head quizzically, not comprehending the sounds I emitted. Their mind touched mine, a real touch in contrast to the mere breaths of before.

“Should I call you ‘Aldo’, perhaps?” I asked, thinking of the scalps again.

No. Not a voice, audible or mental. Bypassing language completely, the meaning inserted directly into my brain.

“You’re right, that’s silly. You are like your Father-Mother in having none and all genders, I think. Maybe you don’t need a name.” I stopped speaking, even silencing my usually interminable internal monologue.

They raised my ankles up until I was spread upside down, an inverted star. More tendrils climbed my arms to my shoulders, and others slid up my legs. I kissed the one closest to my mouth and it pushed between my lips, the temperature of a perfect hot chocolate — just below scalding. The mucus that coated it was cream with honey stirred through it. A complex undertone revealed itself the more I suckled on it, flavours I had never encountered.

I swirled my tongue over the tip, wondering if it would give the creature pleasure. My query was answered immediately, both from the mind-touch and with a gelatinous discharge. The new goo was a little saltier, but otherwise, the iridescent, plum-coloured liquid that splashed out over my face bore little resemblance to human semen. Still leaking, the appendage withdrew and painted a line of ooze over my windpipe to my chest.

While the tentacle that had stayed on my face slithered downwards to wrap itself loosely around my neck, a new one joined the other, and both the limbs there began flicking my nipples. I returned my gaze to the strange, bulbous head and its hypnotic eyes.

Yet more limbs danced in my direction. Glacial paced slithering on my inner thigh finally reached my buttocks and split, seven tubes of soft, muscular flesh webbing over both my cheeks and squeezing them in a syncopated rhythm.  Another limb, unseen, pressed against my perineum, gliding up to my balls, then down to my taint and back again. It cleaved itself, too, each half moving in opposite directions, and then one continued up.

Boneless fingers weaved around my scrotum, a pulsating squeezing adding another arrhythmic rhythm. Between them, the remaining tendril split again, one part slowly drawing figure eights on my hardening shaft, and the other creeping between my ensnared balls to tease my entrance. Instinctively, my muscle there winked when something else began pressing at the centre and slipped inside while the tracing of the outside continued. It probed further in, curiosity becoming the dominant feeling emanating from my new demon lover.

A marble-sized bulge materialised in the tentacle just at my entrance and moved slowly inside. Warmth poured around my prostate when it reached it, spreading inside me, and my whole body convulsed, my vision blurring from being stimulated in so many ways at once. Another bulge arrived, rolling through my sensitive ring, followed by another, and another. Black slime leaked out, trickling down my back. With each arrival, the tube grew so that what at first had been barely the thickness of my little finger was already triple that — noticeable yet comfortable.

The demon was fascinated by how much I enjoyed this probing and used other arms to bring my knees towards my chest, parting them and my buttocks. A different, dripping appendage entered my open mouth, and I sucked on it. Sweet nectar poured out, and a tingling not unlike that of the sacred potion of the ceremony covered my tongue. Without even a breath of air on my cock, I came, adding streaks of my cream to the dark pearlescent secretions smeared over my torso.

Urged on by my reaction, the creature began to move inside me. Now as wide as Hashim’s wonderful cock, the similarity ended there. Whilst it did start to thrust, it also twisted and writhed — literally screwing me — and continued to pump in beads of goo that then squelched out around it.

A second tentacle, already cock-thick but for its tapered end, snaked its way up my back and reared up as if surveying the scene before lowering to my already filled rear orifice. I moaned into the gushing tube in my mouth as the new arrival pushed inside my arse above the first. Spewing lubrication as it wrapped around what already occupied me, it stretched my sphincter to a zone of pleasurable pain. I came again. Without pause, the invader went several inches deeper, past my prostate, before settling into a complementary rhythm of thrusting and twisting.

Pulling randomly at my bonds with no intention of escape, I forced my eyes back open to look for the face of the being bringing me this ecstasy. I found it just as thin tendrils started creeping along my shaft and probing the ridge of my head, causing another orgasm. Overwhelmed, I ceased sucking on the arm between my lips, but instead of withdrawing, it pushed down my throat, meeting no resistance. Its flexibility meant that I hardly gagged at all and could still look up at my cock as the appendages tugged the head gently away from my stomach and then receded to grip the base.

Even with the torrent of love coming from Them, a chill of terror still ran down my spine when those jaws opened wide and approached my crotch. Not one but two elongated tongues emerged, flicking along my thighs. Moments later, my throat clenched around its occupant, choking my scream when a third protuberance shot out directly onto my dick. For a split second, I imagined it would be another fearsome mouth and braced for agonising pain.

It never came.

In place of teeth, divine, wet heat enveloped my cock, squeezing and releasing me in undulating patterns along my entire length, while rubbery nodules inside massaged my flesh. The Child of Baphomet moved us around, lowering me down until I lay horizontal. As soon as my fear receded, my seed flooded Their suckling tube. In response came a hum of appreciation like an electric guitar played with a violin bow through an amplifier on the edge of meltdown.

Knowing that I was not about to become a eunuch, I let go, and a steady roll of orgasms began. The two tongues moved as independently as the limbs, one lapping at my balls and legs, the other slipping into my arse, stretching it beyond even my most ambitious sex toys. The pain of the stretch remained on the borderline of pleasure, merging with all the other intensifying stimulation.

Unseen and unseeable tentacles inhabiting other dimensions seized me, trapping me in an ever-denser web. Those inside me pushed deeper, navigating my body in ways that should have triggered defence reflexes had these not been deactivated by the escalating climaxes.

I observed the intrusions from a dispassionate, near disembodied perspective. Even when the tendrils squirming over my limbs and chest divided themselves until the tips were so fine they could burrow into the tiny holes left vacant by the removal of my hair follicles, I issued no protest, welcoming the subcutaneous massage. Others began invading my ear canal, a harmonic drone dominating my auditory receptors. My eyes rolled back, so I did not see the tiny tendrils that wormed their way into my tears ducts. I felt no panic when tentacles entered my nostrils, cutting off my oxygen briefly before they merged with my lungs and did away with the need for air.

It was no longer a series of orgasms, but a single, continuously escalating climax. I had no body, only bliss, binding me to my partner.

Only in my memories afterwards did I witness the demonic arms wrapping around the white, phallic lever. A single stroke and it released a fountain of brilliant white slime to mingle with the dark purple gunk that coated us. Only in these recollections did I feel the floor itself dilate and plunge us into viscous but blindingly luminescent fluid.

Even in these memories, the last sensation I had was of something entering my urethra and sliding in inexorably. Pleasure obliterated all, leaving only brilliant white.

I am not dead, and I am not alone. This certainty was my first thought when consciousness returned.

I opened my eyes. I was standing on nothing, yet it was as hard as marble. Above, below, and all around were stars.

I examined myself, expecting black filth or bleeding holes. I was clean, but there was definitely something. The dark ridges on my skin could never be mistaken for tattoos, as I had when first seeing them on the Disciples of Baphomet. Mine were still raised and visibly moving, caressing me from the inside.

I'll never be alone again. My waking mind rejoiced in finding another mind enveloping it in an embrace, physically and chemically, my synapses merged with whatever the Child of a god had in their place.

There was still no second voice, whispering urges to evil in my ear, just that love, presence and direct communication, only deeper. I could feel what They felt, the tentacles writhing under my skin as much a part of me as my legs. Other invisible tendrils remained outside of me, floating listlessly in the air, or in some other dimension perhaps — my brain was still adapting itself to the multitude of senses now connected to it that it had not evolved to process.

Some must be those that reach out to touch other minds, I surmised, but there was no one present on whom to test that out.

Boom! Boom! Boom! Boom! Boom! Boom!

Six mountain-sized lead sarcophagi falling from the sky onto granite in quick succession might come close to that sound.

My new senses confirmed what my ears told me. Someone or something else was here — behind me. I turned warily. Another six explosions reverberated in my bones before I completed the movement.

A horned figure sat enthroned in darkness before me. Triumphant in Their pose, a flame of pure unlight blazed atop Their head. Above animal legs ending in cloven hooves were features of both a man and a woman. If Their folded wings were to open, they would surely span the distance between galaxies.

Lo! Baphomet!