Slowly, Robert dropped his foot to the ground and let go of the woman who righted herself like someone in a trance. He stood still, his eyes turning automatically to the dais, his limbs heavy and lifeless, his mind blank.
“Bring forth the bride!”
Two men walked through the silent crowd, a young girl between them. She had no expression of any kind on her face and she walked like an automaton, her escorts supporting her with a hand on each elbow. Somewhere in the sane part of his brain, Robert wondered if she had been drugged.
The men lifted her onto the platform, and the high priest helped her to her feet. She stood before him, her hands at her sides, staring straight ahead. If she hadn't been drugged, she had been mesmerized.
The warlock raised his hands above her head.
“Oh, fortunate female, to be this night the bride of Satan. You have sought him out, you have drunk of his wine, and now you will be joined to him for all eternity.” He stepped back. “Disrobe!”
Still staring straight ahead of her, the young girl untied her girdle and pulled her loose shift down over her shoulders, letting it fall around her ankles. She looked very young, her sturdy little body in the first stages of that lush development that would someday make her more than ample. High, solid breasts thrust out from her chest, the pale pink nipples taut in the cold air. Her hips were gently rounded, her waist neat, her white legs well formed and long. Flaxen hair hung loose, almost to her thighs.
The man stepped forward and ran his hands over the fresh, young body. He tweaked the pale nipples, caressing expertly the soft belly and smooth, cool thighs. At first the girl remained as though made of marble, but as the priest continued to fondle, she started to sway, spreading her legs slightly.
“Rise, lust of Gehenna! Fill this wench with carnal heat. Charge her loins with the fires of Tophet; scourge her with the snake of passion; drench her body with sperm of dibbuks. Wanton! Harlot! Satan's leman!”
The drum had begun again, softly, and under the man's hands the girl began to writhe and twist, her budding breasts rising and falling as her breath quickened.
“Kneel, Jezebel! Give the bridal kiss.”
She knelt down, still swaying her hips. Her eyes were lidded and her lips parted in this grotesque passion. The goat was turned and the sorcerer spread it's buttocks with both hands, baring the loathsome fundament. The girl leaned forward and placed her lips hungrily over the foul orifice. As she moved her head back, the priest pulled her to her feet and turned the goat around so that it sat watching them, a diabolical glow in it's Plutonian eyes.
The priest took a small, sharp dagger from the belt of his robe and quickly slashed a pentagram between the youthful breasts. The blood trickled in thin lines down over her belly, but she showed no sensation except for the continued grinding of her pelvis. She threw her head back and her hands, like creatures apart, stroked her thighs, rising up her body, over the small waist, fondling her own breasts. The priest placed his hand over her mons veneras. It was high and thrusting, lightly covered with blond down, and his hand quite covered it. For a moment he caressed her, then, inserting his fingers in her vagina, he stepped back, crying.
“She is ready! Carnal lust flows from her crevice like the Stygian river. Your bride desires your member, Lucifer! Take her! Fill her! Shame her!”
He turned the girl and directed her toward the black goat so that her dripping sex was directly before it's muzzle. The animal darted out its long, thick tongue and licked avidly. As it did so, the novice writhed and twisted frantically. Between the beast's front legs could be seen it's enormous shaft, thrust full-length, scarlet and pulsing, from it's sheath.
The priest pushed the girl to her knees and directed her to take the organ in her hands, pulling gently on the sensitive gland, adoring and worshipping.
“Now! Consummate, Oh, Satan!”
The girl, still on her knees, was turned so that her arms and upper body rested on a special frame. The goat leaped forward and mounted her without assistance. By his violent thrustings, it was obvious that he was having trouble forcing his great rod past the young virgin's maidenhead, but it was soon accomplished. He thrust into her, snorting horribly, for a quarter of an hour, during which time the high priest chanted hoarsely, and the congregation began to sway in a wanton, sexual surrender to perverted lust.
The beast finally finished his gyrations, and as he slid off his human wife, her thighs were seen to be heavily streaked with the blood of her virginity and the thick, copious semen of the black buck. The high priest then pulled open his robe, revealing his naked masculinity, hard and eager. Before the girl could move, if, indeed, she had any intention of so doing, he fell on her, directing his nob at her anus, and proceeded to bugger her violently, screaming to the skies with every charge.
This was the signal, and the crowd were not slow in following it. Clothes were torn from their bodies and flung on the ground. Jugs and bowls of strong drink appeared from God knows where, and soon the grove was a sea of drunken, fornicating bodies. Seeing how indiscriminately the mating was done, brother with sister, man with fellow man, daughter with mother, father, stranger of either sex, Robert felt that a quick and fairly acceptable selection was the better part of valor. The scene he had just witnessed had chilled and horrified him, but there was no denying that it had also excited him. His prong was rigid and quivering, and he had grabbed the nearest woman, thrown her to the ground and stuffed himself into her, before making any inspection other than that needed to establish that she was at least a female. The act was accomplished quickly, and as soon as he felt his sperm leave him, he leaned back to have a look at the recipient of his lust. It might have been better if he hadn't. Although, in his more riotous moments, he had been known to be less than particular, even the most jaded whoremonger would have balked at the ruin that lay under him. Her face was badly marked from the plague, her gums were toothless, and a trail of spittal ran down her chin. Her rheumy eyes glistened with insane nymphomania, and the putrid stench of her, rivaled that of the devil-goat.
Rolling aside quickly, trying bravely to control his nausea, Robert saw that there was even more to come. The horror stood up awkwardly, seeking new conquests, and in doing so displayed a badly withered arm and leg. Something about these features rang a bell in Robert's mind, but it was not until he heard the man who now grabbed her call her “Agnes,” that he placed her. Twenty years ago there had been a famous trial in Chelmsford, culminating in the execution of Agnes Moorhead, the first woman to be hanged for witchcraft in England. Her daughter, Joan, had also been accused, but had been found innocent and freed. Their accuser had been a twelve year old girl named Agnes Brown-a girl with her right arm and leg badly deformed. This lecherous depraved hag, this ardent attendee of the Devil's sabbath, was the poor molested, child who had so piteously cried “witch”.
This revelation brought Robert completely back to earth, and he hastily began looking for his clothes. If there was ever going to be a chance to sneak away, now was the time.
Snaking his way over and through the madly gyrating bodies, his clothes tucked under his arm in a tight bundle, he made the edge of the clearing. Dressing hastily in a clump of shrubs, he took one last look at the horrendous revel. He noticed his contact, one arm around a plump, redheaded country girl, using his other hand to beat off the attentions of a plowman who seemed determined to mount him. Robert grinned. It would seem that his mate, too, was “big an' strong enough' not to be “buggered against his will.”
Robert leaned against the corner of the ruined mansion, catching his breath. He couldn't stay away too long without running the chance of being missed, and the house was not as close to the hollow as he had supposed. The wind carried to him a distorted version of the cacophony he had left behind, and the moon grew tormented shadows across the neglected lawn. The wind sweeping through the shattered upperstories of the gutted shell sounded like the keening of damned souls. Robert felt the hair rise on the back of his neck. He would rather face a brace of first class assassins than venture into the dungeons of this castle of the doomed, but it had to be done. Pulling himself together, he pushed aside the great oaken door, hanging drunkenly from one hinge, and stepped into the black, cavernous hall. He took a dozen paces, trying to accustom his eyes to the almost total darkness, then stopped, hugging the wall. Had he heard something? He listened, straining to catch the sound again over the shrill cry of the wind. Damn! Was it just the old timbers settling, or was it something else?
Moving quickly, he found the door to the lower regions at the end of the long hall. Forcing it open, he carefully descended the stone steps. He had no light, but at least it was quiet under the house, and he had often found that in a search of this nature, his ears served him every bit as well as his eyes.
The huge cellars seemed never ending, and although Robert's search was nasty it was thorough. It was a long time-too long a time-before he found his way back to the staircase, as much by accident as by design. Thorough though his search had been, it had also been fruitless. He climbed the stairs quietly and sat for a moment
