The Chosen

No. It was just the heater.

Winter twilight shone mutely in her window. Flakes of snow burst to melt upon each impact to the panes.

Again, she’d kicked all the bedcovers off and found herself naked and shiny in her own sweat, and the faintest irritation pawed at her stomach.

When she touched her sex, she knew she’d really come; the telltale sensitivity snapped her legs closed like a trap. She leaned up in the dark, feeling plundered, squashed by all the desires that had been so expertly milked from her.

Sleeping again seemed impossible. Would the dream-figure reappear? The idea titillated her, yet at the same time felt terrifying. Surely she couldn’t go through that again; though her desire lately never seemed to abate, there was nothing left now for it to give up. Empty gas tank, she thought, and slid her hand off the damp mount of her pubis.

She flicked on the bedside lamp, looked around. On the antique night table lay the stack of paperback romances by bestselling Melinda Pryce. Vera’d barely cracked them, not because they weren’t well-written, but because they reminded her of all the things she didn’t have in her own life. Beneath them, though, lay the hardback tome. The Complete Compendium of Demons by Richard Long. She’d bought it for Donna but had forgotten to give it to her. Vera slid the book out, flipped idly through it. It was like a dictionary of demonic entities, none of which she’d heard save for Baalzephon, which she remembered from some distant mythology class. And the Ardat-Lil, a ghostly female sex addict from pre-Druidic lore, said to become incarnate by the ritual sacrifice and feasting upon of male genitalia. Names, lithographs, medieval sketches, etc. mystified her as she turned more glossy-stock pages…

Then her eyes snagged upon a single entry.

Her disbelief bloomed.

The entry, in the M’s, read as such:

MAGWYTH.

««—»»

“Come on,” Donna whispered. “Like that.”

Her request resulted in a sensation akin to being gently gutted. Oh, God, that feels good, she thought in excruciating slowness. She didn’t even know exactly what was being done, and she didn’t care. Each night her dreams entreated her to the most robust pleasures, attentions she had never imagined, climaxes the likes of which she had never even conceived. It’s just a dream, she thought. So why should she feel guilty? How could she be cheating on Dan B.? It was just her subconscious. Just dreams.

“It’s just a dream,” she muttered.

She looked down, and to her astonishment, a mouth peeled her lace panties off her groin, then chewed them, then swallowed them. Another, hotter mouth sucked her toes. Next, she was sucking something herself: a penis with a drape of foreskin so abundant it hung off the glans like a long snout. Two more women lay to either side, moaning bliss as they were penetrated by hideous dream-shapes. That’s why Donna knew this was a dream. Instances such as this couldn’t possibly happen in reality, nor could such figures exist. The darkness, conjoined with her drunken haze, obscured the details. But she could make out enough: the figures were only caricatures of men, with every extremity distorted to extremes. Probing fingers seemed a foot long, and so did darkened faces. Not to mention the penises—so many of them!—thrust before her eager mouth. Finally she squinted down and realized the harbinger of her bliss: one figure gently turned an entire fist back and forth in the vault of her sex, whilst tending her clitoris with a tongue like a wet flap of steak.

A bald woman grinned down at her. “Join in!” Donna pleaded as yet another orgasm quaked. Her hand reached out.

“Can’t,” the woman regretted. Her breasts jutted firmly as melons, with dark-pink nipples. Her pubis shined hairless in the crackling