Chapter #79The Dark Heart of the Occult Lover by: Seuzz   Now that you are confronting the fact, you shouldn't be surprised to discover that you—
Hmm.
You have to stop to remind you yourself that you are not, in the deepest sense, "Hal Swann." You are Will Prescott. But the pull of Swann's essentia ... and the sensation of his imago about you ... and the complete melding of his memories and personality with yours ...
Well, dammit, you will lapse into thinking of yourself as "Hal Swann" almost without thinking, even though your anima proclivities are nearly the opposite of his.
A whimper from the girl beneath you brings you back to your position. I.e., the position that has your still stiff cock wedged firmly inside her, and your mouth by her ear.
It's less mortifying to ponder something less ... visceral. Like the fact that Hal Swann is a ...
Well, a what, exactly? A golemsexual? Or just, in the most general sense, a robosexual?
It's not a temptation he's ever encountered before, needless to say.
For nigh on ten years now he's existed—
And when speaking about the past, it is best to think of him as "he" and yourself as "I", for you have to very different pasts.
What were you saying? Oh yes ...
For nigh on ten years now Hal Swann has existed in an almost sexless state. Oh, he's not a virgin. Fyodor Chernomyrdin (a.k.a., "The Red Army"), the overwhelming Stellae who found and mentored Swann from an early age, saw to that. He even paid for the hookers that gave Hal his first experience of intimacy with a woman, and Hal followed the experience by chatting up a few girls on his own account. Every two or three years, he will even fall into bed with another one, though that's more or less on accident, after he's been lecturing in a frenzied way on the injustice of the current sociopolitical system and one of the girls gets turned on by it and pulls him into a clinch whose ultimate goal is obvious even to the mostly oblivious Hal.
But mostly he just doesn't think about sex, and even his own heterosexuality he accepts more or less on the basis of statistics: by the most reliable accounts he's read, there is between a three and an eleven percent chance that any randomly chosen male will not be heterosexual, and as he himself can plausibly answer to the description "randomly chosen male" he accepts that that there is between an eighty-nine and a ninety-seven percent chance that he is heterosexual, and correspondingly plays those odds. The one time he realized that a guy was coming onto him, it's true, he felt a tug of arousal, but he put it down to basic curiosity and didn't feel curious enough to follow up on the hints.
But this ... this volcanically churning compulsion to ram his member into the golem of Paige Knotts—
Into the golem, for the girl herself hardly registered at all, even when naked and helpless.
That is not a feeling he has ever had before. The closest he has ever come has been on those occasions, like this morning when you "woke" as Hal Swann on the operating table, when he was in the deeps of a project and felt a surge of potency that manifested as a rigid cock. But even then the rigidity didn't last long, and even when he wasn't conscious of it, Hal knew (afterwards, at least) that he was sublimating his sexual drives into his prodigies.
Not even masturbation was ever an issue with Swann. Sometimes he'd wake up to find the sheets sticky with emissions, but that would only provoke a sigh, or an examination of the issue with the same close attention as the old augurs paid to the entrails of their sacrifices.
As for you, Will Prescott ... Well, you've always paid a lot more attention to the needs of your cock, but only to the extent of relieving the pressure. The thought of doing what you did to the golem—
Urgh. Technically, what you're still doing.
—that would have filled you with horror.
It still does. You and Hal both.
Which is why you are distracting yourself by thinking about it instead of, you know ... Getting off the ... girl ... and making amends.
"Look, I'm sorry I did that," you mutter as you separate yourself. "But, um, I had to."
"Rm-hrm," she says from the back of her throat. There might be a choked sob back in there too.
"I know that sounds beastly. I'd explain, but— Oh, here, it'll be easier if I get this thing and put it on."
You scramble out of the bed and are half-crawling, half-flopping across the floor for the control mask when you hear a rustle behind you and—
"Gwuh!" The kick to your ribs isn't bad enough to topple you, but it is enough to hurt really bad. Another kick sends you into a defensive huddle.
"Pervert! Maniac! I'll get the coppers in here, and they'll—!" Feet patter across the floor, and there's a scraping at the door.
You lunge for the mask as a crack of light spills into the room. That light vanishes as you jam it onto your face. You flick desperately through the constellations until you find one that you think is the one you—
You're halfway up a flight of stairs when you stumble and pause. You look around. You are naked. A sheet of hair falls into your face and you thrust it back. Half of your scalp is shaved back to a faint stubble.
You gulp, and your breath comes in ragged shudders. You gag and fight the need to vomit as you turn to stare at the door behind you. Darkness seems to spill out of it. That ... person ... is in there ... and he's inside you ... and he wants you to come back inside ... because he ...
The feeling of sickness doesn't vanish from your body, but like a too-taut rubber band it snaps from your brain. With a firm tread despite trembling knees you return to the bedsit, shut and lock the door, and snap on the light.
Hal Swann, his eyes glazed and his mouth hanging open, is slumped across the floor.
You sigh and cross to him. You grab him by the ankles and pull him to the bed. Somehow, you heave his naked, corpse-like body into it. You sit on the side of the bed next to him and smooth out his hair.
Oh you poor, stupid sod, you think. You're sick. Okay, you're not "sick." You're not even confused. But you're definitely built funny and you didn't find out until the right kind of meal got slapped in front of you, like raw filet in front of a Husky. So naturally you lunged. Pure animal instinct.
Which doesn't make it one whit less awful.
You sigh and feel his forehead. There's no obvious fever.
And that's kind of funny, because now you're feeling feverish. It's November and you're naked in a basement in a cheap apartment house where the landlord won't run the heat. So why does it feel like you're about to break out into a sweat. You wipe your forehead ...
And as you lower your hand it brushes your bare boob.
It's like ringing a fire bell.
Your boob. Your belly. Your ... Oh God!
Next thing you know you're on the floor, your back arching as you plunge avid fingers in and out of yourself while thrusting at the ceiling. You felt nothing like this—you felt the opposite of this, you wanted to sink into the mattress and never come out again—when it was that pervert in the bed doing this, but now it's like that swelling crescendo he felt and it's building up inside you—
And when you fantasize that it's you doing it with Rob, only Rob is a golem and he's plowing your golem pussy with his golem penis—
You have to bite on your fist to keep from screaming when you cum.
* * * * *
"Okay, I understand," you tell the still unseeing, unmoving Hal Swann after you are buttoning yourself up again in heavy jeans and wool socks and a cardigan and scarf. "I'm not the right one to forgive anything. But we'll see what happens when it's just me again and you're sitting up in bed, and I hope to fucking God you feel sick about it."
Because you feel sick now. Two tsunami-like sexual explosions in the space of fifteen minutes? So you're a robosexual even when inside a golem. It might even be stronger there, for you've got the golem all around you.
But what were you pondering earlier, about how all this should be expected, at least in retrospect?
Ah yes. Sexual energy, provoked by the occult sciences, sublimated into them, then directed into a masterful, practical realization that takes the form of exactly that kind of biological creature that the reptilian parts of your brain are designed to lunge for.
It's a wonder your brains didn't spray out your dick when you came. It certainly felt as if they'd been liquefied.
Still awful, but there's an explanation.
You're out the door now and on the street. It's cold, and almost half a mile to the lodgings that come with the university scholarship. You pull out a phone and call Rob. "Hey darling," you say. "Hi dear," he replies. (The recently deployed endearments were instantly seized on by their friends: hence, "Paige Dear" and "Rob Darling".) "Come get me?"
"I'm waiting just around the corner." You look up, and headlamps flash on and off.
You don't know if it's a relief or a terror that you'll be with him so soon.
At least the car is warm when you crawl into it. It's an old Lexus, but Rob keeps it in fine condition, and it smells nice.
He smells nice. He's not a golem, but you feel Paige's attraction for him, and you shudder with suppressed pleasure when he strokes your thigh. "Been dying here, waiting for you," he says. "We have to talk."
"Yes we do," you say with a gulp. "I'm in here, Joe."
His hand freezes on your knee.
"I've got a really bad confession to make."
 You have the following choice: 1. Continue |
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