Before LaVey tried to tidy His words into something clean, almost safe, with his mock bible and quest for righteousness, there was Aleister Crowley. Not a preacher but a prophet of ruin, not a churchman but a beast. His Magick was never the staged theatre of black robes and sermons, but sweat, blood, and sex—symbols carved not into flesh but into the mind, into the soul of those who followed. Or thought they followed.

That, and substance abuse.

I didn't discover Crowley by accident, but by design.

I was tired—exhausted—of a mother and father who tried to forge me into the family mold. No, they were very open; I had choices. I could be either a doctor or a lawyer. Tired, too, of boyfriends who tried to woo me with candlelit dinners, flowers and chocolate, fancy plays and concerts just so they could get into my pants.

Fucking was never about wooing, but about whether I wanted to fuck, or didn’t. And I rarely said no.

Thelema was the result of an exhaustive Google search, a half-manipulated AI response to who I saw myself as, what was achingly lacking, and what the answer to me could be.

Tromsø was the result of my intellect, and I was in my third year at the University when Thelema caught my interest. Two years of fucking around hadn’t left me satisfied, only hungrier. Not for cock, or the occasional cunt, but for meaning. For something behind it all.

Gateway to the Arctic, they’ve nicknamed the city. It sits there like a manifesto to the missionary suppression of Sámi spiritual practices, but also to the fragments that survived underground. Drums. Spirit journeys. Animal totems. The true human savagery—the pull inside us to be animal.

Ishavskatedralen, the Arctic Cathedral, is modern, angular, and raised on the blood of sacrifice. Not sacrifice freely given, but belief carved deep. Conviction so old it sits in the bones. Against the cold arctic night, the cathedral always seemed intimidating to me, and yet pulling, inviting. Not to its sermons, but its secrets.

And then there’s the sea itself. Cold, black, and arctic. A place of drowned spirits, sea monsters, and the liminal line between human and nonhuman. The spirit world.

It’s a long way from Crowley’s Cairo to the windblown house outside Tromsø that four other students and I had made our home as we pretended to study. Helene, Sarah, Eivind, and Bjørn. Then me, tucked away in the attic room. I claimed it for privacy and because I could see both the cathedral and the ocean from the round window. And because I could sit naked and read under candlelight while the ice wind gnawed at the gaps in the wood.

The Book of the Law, Crowley called it, given to him through dictation from the spirit Aiwass. The foundation of Thelema. A philosophy, yes, but also a spiritual system with three central declarations.

"Do what thou wilt shall be the whole of the Law.
Love is the law, love under will.
Every man and every woman is a star."

And under the candlelight, I was mesmerized by Magick in Theory and Practice. The ritual of your own possession, the ownership of your own pleasure, the dominance of the sex, and the surrender of the weak.

Wider, the voice in my head whispered. Let me see your lustful need.

I shifted, opening my legs, the attic’s chill seeping against the heat of me. Leaning back, the book slipping from my hands, I let the candle’s flame dance across my skin.

“Yes,” I whispered.

It was only so slight, the need that rose in my body. I hadn’t partied for weeks, hadn’t fucked. Had hardly even masturbated. Part of it was the University gnawing at us all with deadlines and lectures, and part of it was the Arctic winter pressing in from outside.

So, I only registered it as a basic need that I’d neglected, now pressing forward inside me. Casual, relaxed, and only slightly drifting.

Good, it whispered again. Touch yourself. Claim your need.

I gasped, not at my own touch, but at the wet sensation that met my fingers. I had expected dryness, the reluctant warmth of habit, but instead my fingers slipped through my folds with moist need and burning heat. My clit is small but sharp, sensitive, and now it throbbed stubbornly against my palm, two weeks of tension wound around it like exposed nerve endings.

“Fuck,” I muttered, letting the book fall to the desk.

I didn’t have the patience or stamina to tease myself, sliding two fingers inside with nothing but the need for release. The tension in my crotch spilled through my whole body, hips grinding against my hand. Then three fingers.

My feet lifted from the floor and planted themselves on the desk, knocking over an empty coffee mug, scattering stick-it notes and textbooks in a clutter of half-formed thoughts onto the floor.

Take it harder, he whispered. Because, of course, it was a man’s voice. Fuck yourself for me.

And I did. It was so quick I forgot not to scream, palm-fucking my hole as if it were the only sensible thing left to do in the dark. My feet kicked against the desk, knocking over the candle and leaving me to unravel in shadow, driven by my own breaking voice, my own desperate breath.

I had one whispered “Fuck” left in me, then collapsed into the dark.

I swear I saw a man’s face at the window. A shape. But when I blinked, it was gone.

I gasped again, but not in horror, only surprise. I didn’t chase his memory through the window; I only leaned back and caught my breath. Then I untangled myself from desk and chair, fumbled toward my bed in the dark, and found the light switch.

I should have tidied the mess, set the mug upright, gathered the notes, but I was drained. Emptied. I only wanted sleep.

Breakfast in our yellow house was half-hearted, aside from the acrid coffee, always black and plentiful. None of us were morning birds, no songs of light or flutters of easy cheer. Bjørn and I had a thing we pretended never happened in our first year; Sarah and Eivind had a thing they pretended wasn’t happening still. The rest of us played along. Helene, though, was always up early, glasses on, hair pulled into a tight ponytail.

It was as if she were keeping tabs, counting us before we piled into the old Toyota HiAce we’d all chipped in on, after realizing Tromsø’s public transportation was useless outside the city’s core.

I studied the shape of the house as Bjørn steered through the snowdrifts. We’d been told it was built in the 1850s, with additions tacked on over the decades.

I pretended not to notice my candle flickering in the attic window. I hadn’t lit it that morning.

The conversations carried on like they always did: a useless scramble of academic struggles, the latest party, and the next one. The Arctic Cathedral drew my eyes away from their chatter. It loomed like a cold monument against the dark sky and flurries, and for a moment I thought it mocked me.

I told Bjørn to drop me at the library. The aisles wouldn’t offer anything new on Crowley, but I needed silence. And in that silence, the idea came to me to ask the librarian.

“I’m looking for… I’ve a project about Aleister Crowley, but I can’t really find any useful source material.”

She raised an eyebrow, as if I’d asked her to explain Satan to me.

Still, in a forgotten corner of her library, she offered a secret I wasn’t meant to know she hid.

On a strip of microfilm not yet digitized, I found prints, articles, and notes that stirred my curiosity.

The reels clicked forward, the type stuttering across the glass—sparse, brittle English, as if translated twice before landing in print.

Charming, indeed, Mr. Crowley struck me, though it was the charm of a man who knew not gentleness but power, and wielded it as such.

Another scrap further down: I would not call him a believer, but he unbelieved with polemical strength, tearing faith apart until doubt itself seemed holy.

There were more. Accounts of grandeur, of mountaineering and poetry, of Himalayan expeditions. Then the tone shifted. The Black Magician, the wickedest man alive, according to the Daily Express. Rumors of blood sacrifice, drug orgies, ritual sex.

I devoured every word until Bjørn’s hand on my shoulder startled me.

“You been here all day?” he asked.

The drive home blurred. Snow drifted relentlessly, summoned from the dark. I think Sarah told a joke; everyone laughed but Helene. She and I shared the silence.

Why don’t you fuck him? the voice along my spine whispered, and I pressed my thighs tighter. I felt wet against myself. For the rest of the drive, I tried not to answer Him.

“I’ll just go to my room,” I said when Sarah called us to dinner. “I think I’m coming down with something.”

At the landing, I glanced up the attic stairs, and that surge hit—the one horror films chase with their trick shots, the pull-back zoom. That sudden lurch in the gut.

My room looked empty, but it felt used. Not a scent of someone, but the heat of presence. My candle was out, but warm. I glanced at the window, not knowing what I expected to find.

I undressed and slid under my covers.

Fucked myself until sleep took me.

The house felt cold the next morning. Not Tromsø-winter cold, but soul-cold. Like a disappointed lover.

Helene sat in her perfect majesty at the table, while the rest of us looked tired. Used, as if we’d shared the same dream of running through darkness.

I asked Bjørn to drop me at the library again.

“You’re missing lectures,” he reminded me.

“Just fuck off,” I told him.

The librarian smiled when she saw me, as though she had been waiting.

It was the same articles. Nothing new, not really, yet that surge inside me made me run the reel over and over.

I think my heart skipped a beat. Or two.

Scrawled in the margin, faded, almost invisible, ink pressed hard into the page:

…and his filth was as pure as my own, a sweetness bitter on the tongue, as they used me again and again, until I no longer knew if I was waking or drifting, if their bodies were pressed to mine or only the shadows of smoke and opium sighs…

The words seemed to pulse against the light of the reader, raw where the others were brittle, not written on parchment but festered into it.

There was a slow thud. One heavy beat catching the aftermath of my pulse, not rapid but slow, deliberate, intent.

Who was she? Who wrote that? I scrolled further, caught by another warm thump inside me, as if it were running through me in search.

…wave after wave of orgasms…

The next few lines were blurred.

…until the opiates were no longer the accelerant to my descent, and descent was all…

I moaned when the thumping found its target. My cunt throbbed, and the more I shifted, the more she ached. I thought the heat was inward, but when I moved again, I could no longer deny it. A dark patch spread at my crotch, bleeding through panties, long johns against the Arctic cold, the fabric of my jeans.

Emma Rae Saun…

“Oh, fuck…”

It escaped me like a whimper as I pressed my thighs together in search of normalcy. I managed a paranoid sweep of the room but found myself alone.

Then the lights shifted, and the hum of the reader stretched, warped, like a thread pulled too tight. I was pulled back—not just in time, but in shape. Emma Rae Saunders. Not just her shape and scent, but her memory, her drenched lust pouring into me. My chest crushed by a corset too narrow for my frame, ribs straining as I spun helplessly through the air and landed on the desk… no, a stone altar.

And then I felt it. Beyond the corset binding me like a doll, I was naked and wanting.

There was a hum, a slow chant. Perhaps an organ playing—ominous, but not startling—pulling me, no—her—further into heat. Not lust. Pure, unraveling heat.

Speech had eluded me, and still, I don’t know what words my voice would have carried.

Princess of the night, he said. You are ready.

Her first orgasm rippled through me before the first touch, before the first masked man slid inside us, hot wax dripping on my skin, chants filling our head. Her cunt was nothing like mine. No—hers was a fiery pit of self-deceit, shaped for their need and lust, as if she’d surrendered belonging to her body altogether.

I tried to scream when his cock split me. Her. Us.

“Oh, God,” a voice cried, but it didn’t sound like mine.

God? he said, followed by a deep chuckle, a rasping laugh. What god are you looking for, Emma?

And then—gone. The library snapped back around me, fluorescent stillness pressing in so suddenly that it left me gasping. The silence was absolute, vacant, and cold, and I shuddered through the heat still clinging to me.

My cunt felt used beneath the layers of fabric, and I knew by her throb that she had cum.

Shame brought me back, a burning fluster against my skin, and I feared moving, as if anything but absolute stillness would pull me back to her altar, to their hands. To her moans, her insatiable need.

I didn’t dare look again. I only switched the reader off, leaving it to hum, then fade into silence. I grabbed my notebook and flung it into my bag, but when I rose, I saw the soaked imprint she’d left on the green fabric. A stain no Magick would erase.

Desperate, I tugged my coat down to cover my drenched crotch, but the wet had seeped down my thighs so deeply it was futile. I tried to carry some calm, some dignity, as I hurried out into the cold, hauling a cab to take me home.

The driver smiled, but to me it looked like a grin, as if he knew, as if he tasted me on the air, ready to pull over and fuck me senseless in the cold mounds of snow left by the ever-working plows. Oh, I would let him. Almost told him to stop, but the cathedral grinned through steel and glass, and the flurries spun endlessly out of the dark, pulling me into a state of—

“Miss?” he said. “We’re here. That’ll be two-fifteen.”

I gasped, startled. Shoved two two-hundred-dollar bills into his hand and hurried inside.

It was the same familiar house once I wrung my coat off in its warmth. The house didn’t meet my pulse, didn’t echo my fluster. I showered in the downstairs bathroom, setting the kettle before rinsing the dream off me.

“Stress,” I told the fogged-up mirror. Then, laughing, “Not enough sex.”

I wrapped myself in a robe, twisted my hair in a towel, and stirred more of Helene’s honey into my tea than she’d ever allow. I meant to read up on some English author I’d already lost interest in two weeks earlier, but I was pulled elsewhere.

The comfort turned uncomfortable. As freeing as it felt to have the entire house to myself, the pull toward my room pressed claustrophobic. The itch in my blood too intent.

And once in my attic, clothes felt suffocating under the candlelight.

I’d always envied other girls their breasts. Mine are fine—small, maybe a little sagging, as if Mom had run out of stuffing in her womb when she forged me. No one’s ever complained about them but me. Yet now, in that light, they seemed fuller, more intent. My nipples shouted under my palm, tender and alert as if they’d turned overnight.

My belly seemed pressed into clear lines, no longer carrying the uncertain shape of a little too much. I traced lower, where I’d never thought myself much different from anyone else. A slit, a fold, a cunt that worked as it should. Nothing to brag about, nothing to worship.

But under the candlelight, she seemed different. Swollen, almost luminous, the lips plush where they’d always felt small and tucked away. The heat rising from her felt richer, hungrier, as if she had grown impatient with me. My clit, usually shy, now jutted boldly, throbbing as though it had been waiting years for this recognition.

I slid a finger along the seam, and it felt new, as if a door had opened. My pussy wasn’t just wet; she was alive, aware, and she wanted.

“Emma…”

It slid past my lips, wet, uncontrolled, and I had to wring what little self-control lingered in my bloodstream not to give her the orgasm she begged for.

Desperation, perhaps, as I flung my laptop open and searched blankly for Emma Rae Saunders. For Saunders + Crowley. For anything that bore her name, or His version of it.

At first, nothing but dead-end links to Emmas and Saunders and haircare and a valedictorian speech from 2003.

I thought about it. Giving up to the pulse that fucked me raw from the inside. Not my cunt, now gasping for something, like a fish out of water, but every nerve pulsing and every hair on my body standing erect and horny waiting for the salvation of orgasm.

Then, a fragment, buried in the corner of an archive scan—a young woman, E.R. Saunders, fell faint at the close of Mr. Crowley’s demonstration… detail omitted for decency.

It wasn’t proof. It was a sliver, a tease. Just enough to confirm she had stood in his orbit, and just enough to keep me from believing I was going mad.

Princess of the night? Don’t ask Google.

I heard the rustling of them arriving downstairs, but called down how I wasn’t feeling too sharp. I called it, because I wouldn’t want anyone else to catch it.

I thought about surrendering to my hands and the heat, but the exhaustion of the night before settled in my bones instead, and I stumbled into bed, letting sleep wrap itself around my skin before any recollection of sliding under the covers could take shape.

I had the kind of dream that feels too real to wake from. I remember standing naked in the pale moonlight falling through the window. I remember thinking the stars blinked so peacefully. I remember admiring the shadow of my curves against the wall before descending the narrow staircase.

The house felt different in my dream, as if it had a pulse and a scent that had always been there, buried under decades of Northern myth, perhaps frozen solid or whipped into silence like the Sámi shamans.

The hallway felt real, apart from the low chanted hums and the intense heat wrapping me tight. I didn’t knock on his door, because my will was the whole law.

The same moon spilled into Bjørn’s bedroom, illuminating it in the same silver glow that filled my attic. His sinful clutter scattered across the floor, unchanged from two years ago when I fucked him regularly. One leg slipped naked from the covers, and his left arm lay braced beneath the wild locks of his unruly hair. I stood at the foot of his bed, watching.

With a soft tug, I pulled the covers off him. He didn’t startle, didn’t stir. His muscles lay unaware, resting under his skin as if none of his body knew the excitement pulsing through the house.

But his cock knew—standing rigid, waiting, pulsing with need under the weight of pale mercury.

Emma didn’t care for sucking him; she only craved to ride. So our body slid like a whisper onto the bed and mounted him like a credulous allowance of betrayal—tender yet demanding, a deceit born only of chasing equal pleasures. Equal needs. A need his thumping cock gave away without the need for his voice.

He startled then, as if our cunt burned his soul awake. Wide-eyed, he took us in—our beauty, our need, our lust.

“Hush,” we whispered, and he fell silent.

The only sounds were the low chant, the wet slurps of her greedy cunt, and the rupture of breath building deep in our gut.

Her hips rolled against him, driving him deeper into us. I had never felt such intense—pleasure—in a cock before, but Emma assured me, The best is yet to come.

He tried to whisper my name, but Emma pressed a finger to my lips, then guided his hands to our chest. Her nipples were wired differently from mine; jolts of pure current raced down our spine as his palms closed around us, dragging the sharp buds against his skin.

Emma whipped me, fury and haste flooding through me as I rode Bjørn’s cock faster. Deeper.

“I’m cumming…” I whispered.

Not yet, she said, curling our spine down toward the tense body beneath us, letting him suck our tits empty of lust.

And that lust filled him; we felt it through his possessed cock, no longer steered by the man beneath but by us—summoning his desire, making his only will to fill us. Complete

His eyes went blind beneath us, his body tensing as his cock throbbed. His hands clenched hard around our tits, no longer tender or in awe, but holding on. Grasping at sanity—or perhaps his life.

But he couldn’t last. His cock throbbed violently as we drained him, let him spill into us until it felt like nails dragged down my back, up my thighs, and then—

It was as if someone wrung my spine, twisted, bent to breaking. And then, all the fury of the world, all the whispers of scorned lovers, all the euphoria men had tried to turn into writing pooled in my cunt and exploded.

I woke exhausted.

The Arctic night shone empty through the round window. The stars were gone, hidden behind a veil of clouds, another winter storm brewing on the horizon.

I ached when I tried to sit, as if every muscle in my body had been used in ways it was never designed for. I managed, back perched against the cold wall. I tried to regain feeling, the sensation of my skin, and as sleep left my blood, my heart began to thump again.

I didn’t need to feel between my legs. She was throbbing. Used, and leaking something that did not belong to me.

The scrub of clothes felt like a curse older than the house. Something festering in the soil it was built on, bled through by centuries, and only now manifesting itself in my skin. They itched, and it felt like blisters blooming under wool and cotton. I discarded it all for a plush robe that didn’t cling to me like nettle and sulfur.

Helene sat at the breakfast table, glancing over the top of her book. She noted the robe I’d tucked around me, the lack of sleep in my eyes, then set her book down.

“Bjørn’s not feeling well either,” she said calmly. “Couldn’t get him out of bed this morning.”

Sarah and Eivind glanced up, pulled from each other’s eyes.

“Whoa, Eva,” Eivind said, and my name sounded foreign to my ears. “Looks like you haven’t slept in weeks.”

I watched them through the kitchen window as they huddled inside the Toyota, snowdrifts hurling through the Tromsø wind. I set my untouched coffee mug on the counter and let the robe fall from my shoulders.

Summon him, the voice whispered up my spine.

“No,” I said, bending his will. “Not like this.”

I pushed Bjørn’s door open. He lay still, sleeping, paler than I remembered from my dream.

I sat in his chair—the one he reserved for stillness, a slow drink waiting on the side table, his favorite author in his hands. I let my legs fall open, and the heat claim me.

“Come,” I whispered.

Slow were his movements, but my burn was patient. First, his limbs finding purpose, then the drag as he pulled himself from the bed. His eyes found my shape, asking permission.

“Good boy,” I whispered.

His crawl was slow, dragging his body behind his will, but his hands found my legs, his lips my feet. I let him take his time, find his purpose, admiring how his hunger for me—for Emma’s pulsing cunt—pulled his mouth up my leg, worshipped the curve of my calf, whispered a prayer into the hollow of my knee, and surrendered to the softness of my thigh.

He looked up once, but when I cupped his curls in my hands, he surrendered to her. His only purpose: to make us cum slowly. Again. And again.

I heard the groan of the Toyota as it struggled for traction through the mounting snowdrifts on the narrow road up to our yellow house. Its headlights cast long shadows through my window as it bent around the curve. I put my book down and sighed.

I stepped down the narrow stairs, grinned toward Bjørn’s room, and then slid the rest of the way to the main floor. From the kitchen, the scent of garlic and herbs filled the house with a splendor students rarely allowed themselves.

I let their clatter and scuttle from the hallway disturb the quiet before welcoming them in. Surprise showed on their faces when they found me setting the table in the dining room.

“Feeling better?” Sarah asked.

I nodded.

I wasn’t feeling better. I was starting to feel the climb toward fulfillment. Toward purpose. I felt more alive than I ever had, and yet foreign still in this new body, these new sensations.

They sat without questioning why I poured wine instead of water, why a feast had been laid out on a dreary winter day. I think they were thankful.

“This is wonderful, Eva!” Helene gasped, teeth sinking into the roast we’d meant to save for New Year’s.

“How’s Bjørn?” Sarah asked, a furrow of care burrowing into her beautiful face.

“Resting,” I said. Not even a lie.

“Spoken to him at all?” Eivind asked, still convinced our past made things strange between us.

“I fed him earlier,” I said, keeping it casual. Still not lying. “He’s… drained.”

I let wine be their admission, their confession of hunger, and the restlessness that haunted them in different ways.

I let it feed the stream of Emma’s pulsing blood, and she thanked me with a throb, whispering words only I could hear.

I like the silent one with the stern eyes, she whispered.

Helene? I thought, surprised by her appetite.

They’re always wound so tight they end up breaking with every fiber of their bodies, Emma argued.

I glanced across the table. The wine had loosened Helene’s hair, giving it a slight disheveled look, a small escape from her tight ponytail. I’d never once thought about fucking her. And not now, either.

The candles flickered, maybe just a draft from the old windows, the house shifting against the cold outside. Or maybe His whispered command for attention.

My gaze shifted left, to the couple. Eivind with his rugged good looks, Sarah with her perky, round tits and blond little face. Blue-eyed. Loud when she cums.

Them, I let her know, and Emma grinned.

Sarah’s eyes met mine, but slipped away before stealing another, curious glance. I didn’t let her go. I watched her hand rise to her neck, an involuntary twitch before it settled against her chest.

Emma imagined her cunt. No—evoked it behind my eyes: a clean-shaven slit, pink folds tucked neatly before splitting open like a rushed bloom. Sarah flinched, then tugged Eivind’s arm, pulling him closer.

Eivind, meanwhile, looked warm inside his knitted sweater—perhaps protection against the Tromsø cold, but now only choking him slowly against the hum and pulse of the house.

They’d fuck each other furiously later.

I excused myself, leaving them to tidy the feast, and retreated to my attic. I paused at Bjørn’s door. He sat neatly at the foot of his bed, collar tight around his neck, cock waving in anticipation.

I’d let his beast loose later. Maybe.

Emma was tired of borrowing my body, resentful of the patience in my bones, the lack of opiates in my blood.

Please, I whispered, but she clawed our clothes off, down to bare nothingness, and I wondered if she meant to fuck us both with the same intense fury.

I thought about surrendering to her, falling on my knees, and letting her take us like a bitch. Instead, she tore through my closet with determined rage, discarding garment after garment until the floor was littered around her. At last, she pulled free a scarlet robe from some long-ago Halloween night.

She draped it across us, and I studied her glowing reflection in the wall mirror, suspended between shock and awe at her beauty.

Aleister, she whispered.

I had no wits left to question the name before my body found the floor, a pentagram scrawled in lipstick across the boards, a candle burning at each pointed tip. I had no time to dwell on the fever rising inside me, nor the unseen arms that dragged me down, stretching me to the star’s five corners. I did not recoil when I felt His shape and weight press upon me, only prayed He would find me worthy.

Emma moaned, then whimpered.

“Aleister.” The name slipped from my lips, not in surprise, but as a prayer.

Our yellow house is filled with memories. The uncertain, awkward, slightly gangly teens who moved in two summers ago with aspirations of making futures, memories, and friendships. Eivind, already the gentleman, was helping Sarah with the heavy box, her shy smile in response. Bjørn, gawking at my ass, offering to help me settle into my attic. Helene, self-proclaimed madam of the house, setting the rules: name tags on refrigerator shelves, study times, meal times, assigned kitchen duties.

Our first house party. Our first Christmas break. The hugs upon returning from them. Falling in and out of love with Bjørn, still fucking him when need grew too sharp to ignore. Fighting restlessness together, finding comfort when the world was too full of turmoil. The news of Eivind’s grandmother’s passing. Sarah’s parents’ accident. My brother’s wedding invitation.

I floated through it all, let those emotions fill me—fill us—until we brimmed with every joy, sorrow, sin, and pleasure the house had ever held. Not just from our tenure, but from all its decades.

Sarah was on her hands and knees, facing me, when I entered. Small, strangled breaths escaped her throat as Eivind slammed into her. Her eyes widened at the sight of me, but she didn’t falter, didn’t scream. She only kept her rhythm.

And he, in turn, grew only more intent on claiming her, hands steady on her hips, pulling her down onto him rather than thrusting up into her. Then his eyes fell on me—on Emma’s naked chest springing free from the red robe, her legs moving slowly toward them, her breath deep, wanting. Hypnotic.

And his lust caught Emma’s pulse, and Sarah—caught in the middle, the only victim of it—was used like a surrogate for all the want surging through him.

“Fuck her,” I commanded. Then, lowering my gaze to her begging eyes: “Take it.”

And she obeyed—not with will, but through eons of surrender that claimed her body. Her back arched violently, tits thrust forward, surrendering again to my hands cupping her. I twisted her swollen buds between my fingers until her face contorted, caught between discomfort and release.

But she never had the chance to howl her orgasm into the night. I twisted her blonde strands in my fists, watching her eyes widen and overflow as I pulled her into Emma’s cunt, drowning her in our lust, her lover’s lips pressed to mine in a wet, claiming kiss.

And between us, we let Sarah collapse, giving in to her own chase for beatitude, her body tensing with the abandonment of will, of thought, of anything coherent. And when she released, we all felt it. Eivind. Me. Emma.

Her mouth slid from our cunt, lost its grip on Eivind’s cock, and when Emma pressed us onto her spent body, Eivind didn’t question what to do.

Such was his eagerness to please us that he slid in without hesitation, as if Sarah’s body beneath us were the altar of his sacrifice. His cock found our cunt with the same urgency he’d spent on her, but now it was ours he served.

“Fuck us,” we whispered, and he had neither will nor breath to protest.

We wrapped around him, feeling the tension in his body as he hammered away at us. Beneath us, Sarah’s breath came short, broken, as if she felt his cock the way we did.

Better than opiates, I told her.

Not enough, Emma hissed back.

“Faster!” I yelled into his face.

His jaw clenched, sweat spilling from the tip of his nose and running down between our breasts, but his pace picked up. I was ready to cum for him, but Emma pulled me back.

Not deep enough, she hissed.

“Deeper!” I commanded, never realizing my cunt had no bottom.

And only then did I sense His presence above me—shadowy but warm, menacing yet soothing. He pulled my arms from Eivind and pinned them to the mattress. As if bound with the softest silk, I found myself unable to move. Then He took my legs the same way, while Emma stroked my cunt with a fervor not meant for the human world.

I started cumming—wet, obscene, squirting over Eivind’s cock, the bed, everything. And still he pounded me.

I saw His shadow move behind him, then felt Eivind jerk violently as He inhabited his body. Then I saw his eyes.

“Master,” I whispered.

“My Emma,” he said.

She filled my entire flesh with herself as she let Him take her. Through my body she came, and came again, while He summoned all His powers to enslave us to His will. His desire. His flesh and blood.

His all-devouring cock.

When I cried Enough!, she yelled More!

When I screamed, she did not hush.

When I broke—spilling a flood of wet into the night, she only squeezed my cunt tighter and laughed.

I woke sprawled across the bed, morning’s silence spilling over me as though its secrets were mine alone to keep. I stretched into the hum that lingered in the air and grinned at the night behind me.

Through the round perfection of my window, the Aurora Borealis spilled. The Valkyries’ armor flashing as they rode, a thousand warriors galloping skyward, steel shivering into light. The Bifrost Bridge unfurled, a glowing span between Earth and Asgard, trembling with every step of gods and giants. And beyond the reach of sagas, the Sámi whispered still—the souls of the dead, drawn across the night sky, their shimmer both blessing and warning. To call out, to whistle, or wave was to invite them closer, to risk being taken in their company.

That glow was no longer outside but within, draped across our bodies, settling like ash and fire. Her breasts spilled across my chest, pale, wanting, alive with a current stronger than the ocean’s pull beyond the hill, as if the dead themselves had brushed against us in passing, leaving only desire in their wake.

“Fetch me a virgin,” he had said when he pulled out of me, filled with his seed. Brim full.

I rose, feeling more alive than ever, as if a circuit had been fulfilled, and a pure surge had taken hold of me. In front of the mirror, I once again found myself stuck to her image. I wanted her. I wanted to please her, to drink him from her mound.

But her voice warned me, made me not dare even a feel of her throbbing cunt between my legs.

She forced my will away from her image and guided me down the stairs. They creaked lightly, even though my body felt like feathers drifting in a summer breeze. So light was my breath, I wasn’t sure I even tasted air in my lungs.

From the kitchen below, the smell of fresh coffee and the fry of bacon drifted upward to my landing.

How tediously earthly, I thought, smiling. Pathetic.

I didn’t need to knock on Bjørn’s door; I only had to push it open. Sarah was beautiful between them, their cocks lodged deep inside her, all of them still clinging to their former shapes but filled with His perverted need. The lights made them look drowned underwater, moving only out of habit. They stilled when they saw me, and all I had to do was take their leashes.

Helene sat at the kitchen table, not glancing up when I entered. She was stunning, and I imagined her tight little pussy, her untouched breasts. The snap behind her eyes when Emma possessed her, when I would finally be allowed to please her.

I think she found my silence eerie. And when she did look, my nakedness disturbed her. But what jarred her most were my servants trailing close behind, leashed and bound, each carrying a candle, each humming the chant that now pulsed through my spine.

Who else could play the virgin but the woman clinging to schedules, rules, and names scrawled across fridge shelves?

Her beautiful lips parted, her mouth fell open—yet the chant?

It consumed us all.

𖤐𖤐𖤐

You’re safe now. If you still feel Emma, a like might ward her off. If you’re still unsure, hit the star. But to be entirely safe, leave a comment. I dare you not to.