Disciples of the Leather Messiah

And how does the Leather Messiah make his entrance?

From the cracked heavens He descends, a sinuous shape, textured like octopus flesh. A mighty spoondrop of honey-like flesh, hooked to the sky by one ever-lengthening strand. As if the universe has drooled a dollop of precum.

The Messiah pools on the ground. He grows, acquiring mass from the fleshfall from the sky. Pseudopods emerge, stems of noxious flowers. Stalks rise, sporting eyes at their tips glowing like deathlights in a marsh. Sound of dead leaves shivering in autumnal breeze. Crunch of heavy weight on dead grass.

Rivers of unnatural flesh flow, entwine around the legs of the Disciples, stream toward the cherries.

breed them breed them breed them breed them breed

Not words. A feeling. The hunger, the need, the way you feel when you're horny our of your mind and your legs are spread and there's a hot top glaring down at you, spittle on his lips, rape fogging his mind.

The Disciples wrap hands around cocks. Butts beckon, cuntholes spasm, relax.

The Lizard King spits, grinning.

And Black Crowley? His eyes are hooded, and his heart hammers, hungry for wolves.

The Messiah's deliquescent flesh pools at the cherries' feet, encircling them and the hot metal of their bikes.

"Breed me," Snake begs.

"Yeah," Skunk croons, tossing his hair, grinning like a mellow stoner, spreading his legs.

Beneath him his motorcycle chortles.

Tentacles sprout from the fleshpools, rising, waving like reeds in the breeze. Tentacles? Call them cocks. Protoplasm flows into them. They lengthen and thicken. At the tip of each five, maybe six tendrils sprout, finger thin, tapering like a dog's cock.

A yellowish-green ichor oozes from the tendrils, flows down the flesh. Drips onto the grass, which hisses and withers.

The implanted beasts quiver in the cherries' rectums, rejoicing. For they are in the presence of their Father.

The impious Lizard King struts into the middle of his god's liquid form. Kneeling, he slips his arms around one of the demon's phallus, caressing it, holding it like a giant horse cock to his tattooed chest. His tongue delights in the ichor's acid taste. The narcotic fills him, lifts him.

His triple-nutted sack contracts and a stream of jizz arcs through the air.

The Earth rumbles as if Hel laughs.

Tiny fingers beckon the tendril's from the cherries' winking buttholes. The Leather Messiah's phalli answer, probing between the buttcheeks, snuffling, seeking.

"Shit!" Snake. "It's cold!"

"Fuck!" Skunk. "It's hot!"

In their hot swampy buttcracks, lightly furred and walled with muscle the Messiah's implanted eggs and his ejaculators meet. Tenderly they embrace. Cilia emerges, entwine, embrace, love.

For a moment there is silence. You can see the Disciples staring at this porn, mesmerized. You can see the cherries, panting, needing, hungering for the demonic thrust. You can see the Lizard King, his cock throbbing, still erect, still unconquered, ready to cum.

Then, like lightning, the Leather Messiah rams its phalli into the cherries.

No, you don't hear moaning. No, you don't hear screaming. You just hear the sigh of two young men who, full of hate for the dreadful normality in which humanity has chained itself, have transcended it all.

Buttholes spread wide, inhaling the alien flesh. Inch after inch. Foot after foot. Yard after yard. The Leather Messiah fills the cherries, its cocks serpentining into their gloom-shrouded guts.

Snake?

No, he doesn't often play the bottom. So his donut and his chute are tight for the Messiah, and the Messiah roars his approval, shaking the needles of the pine where the fragments of three failed cherries moulder. The cold flesh raping Snake rips away the detritus of ages, and the blond biker snaps into a new reality, humping his hot butt on the flesh, eager for fulfillment, turning and twisting his butt on the Messiah's fleshy river.

Snake babbles a laudatory hymn: "I'm taking this I'm taking it all oh fucking god this is like heaven--"

And Skunk?

The black-haired bitch made love to a cucumber when he was of an age when boys aren't supposed to feel such things. Yeah, he's a bottom, eager for cock, the type of guy you find on the piss- and jizz-stained floor of a porn shop, stark naked, semen hanging from his butthole like snot, begging for it: a finger, a toe, a baby carrot, a big carrot, a cock, a dildo, an eggplant, a fist, two fists, a leg, Gary Coleman. Mind blasted with bliss. Multicolored fragments of his soul whirl around him like a shattered sword.

No hymn from Skunk's throat, unless wild ululations and piercing cries of joy constitute music.

The Lizard King?

His god rapes him, a phallus plunging and rearing into his tight butthole. A lamprey-like pseudopod has engulfed his foot-long cock to the root, and viscous fingers like living Vaseline caress his nuts obscenely. Goatish hair falls down his back, dripping sweat, and drool cascades down his chin. His eyes are white slits.

Black Crowley?

Encased completely by the Leather Messiah's flesh, he can't be seen, but the palpitations suggest a muscular man thrashing in ecstasy.

The Disciples?

You can't really see them any more either, for the Messiah is a hyperactive fog of thrusting phalli and lewd tentacles, and it's wrapped obsidian flesh and amber flesh and ivory-white flesh with its unwordly body, and it takes pleasure in their heat. But they are there, engrossed in ecstasy, drowning in lust, in the ichor, in the unadulterated coupling of puny man and mighty demon. Butts hairless and thatched, teen-slender or runningback-muscular, strain to absorb the Messiah's unbridled lust.

And the motorcycles?

Yeah, the bikes. Slender fingers of the Messiah's flesh molest hot exhaust pipes, fill the cylinders themselves, tweak spark plugs like nipples. Consumed with petrochemical lust, the bikes roar and thunder.

All things belong to a brotherhood. Man. Rubber. Vegetable. Machine.

The Messiah laughs its joy, and the power of it could tumble Atlantis beneath the waves, overwhelm the plateau of Leng with a fiery tsunami of jizz, burst Valhalla's foundations, shatter the crust of the worlds of the solar system.

And incest is best.

In moments such as this there is no time. There is only pleasure, heartbeats, thrusting, leaking, oozing, cumming.

The supreme moment arrives. The Messiah seizes the cherries from the inside, and he lifts them high in the air. Five feet, ten feet, thirty feet, impaled on his multitudinous cocks, they weave back and forth, cum raining from their cocks.

There is a pressure in Skunk's throat, in Snake's throat, that makes them wonder if the Leather Messiah's phallus is going to utterly pierce them and protrude from their mouths, gargantuan parody of the Lizard King's tongue.

I am become Death the devourer of Worlds.

In the stygian night of their guts light blossoms, a light not seen since the universe began eons ago, a light so bright their flesh seems made of glass.

The greenish-yellow luminance is the Leather Messiah's sperm, and you might think of leprous flesh if you saw it.

If you survived.

Remember those little beasties? They've been crushed to goo by the penetration, but not destroyed. See, they're eggs, and they mix with the glow, flesh and light, solid and energy, and they begin to transform, drawing nourishment from the two men who comprise the Leather Messiah's chosen wombs.

Rosy-cocked Odin peers over the margin of the mortal world.

It is sane again. There is no interstellar orgy; never has been. There is no pine tree and there isn't a trio of bodies lying discarded under it. Never has been.

There is no Leather Messiah.

There is the forest. There is the clean wind. There are butterflies fluttering liketromp l'oeiltissue paper.

There is the grassy hilltop, though its verdant growth mysteriously turned brown and sere in the night.

And there are the Disciples, lying as if they've been simultaneously felled during a drunken orgy.

There are no cherries anymore.

They are all Disciples.

Naked flesh, muscled flesh, leather, and tattoos.

And bikes.

And outlawry.

The Lizard King tugs on his clothes. Black Crowley scrapes dried jizz off his chest.

"Get up." The Lizard King nudges Snake's form with his foot.

The blond stirs, rolls over. Flecks of grass fall from his hair. He tries to rise, grimaces, falls over, clutching his stomach. "Fuck!"

The Lizard King kneels over Skunk, sniffs the lanky form, savoring the raunch. "Wake up, bitch."

Skunk groans like his blond buddy. And is felled by the same cramps.

The Disciples are woken by their cries. They rise, and they watch. Cocks rise. Balls swell.

It doesn't take long.

Imagine the feeling of trying to shit a turd longer than your body is tall. This is what Snake and Skunk, the new Disciples, felt. Awful cramps. The need to expel.

Raw buttholes opened.

And what emerged?

Not yellowish ichor, not the jizz of the supreme god, the Leather Messiah, the Beast of Ten Thousand Cocks.

It's flesh. Liquid, undifferentiated flesh, textured like an octopus. Pulsing. Flowing. Raising

For a brief moment the new beings lay on the ground. Then they shiver, gather themselves, and they too, like their father, rise into the sky, find the weak place between the worlds that Black Crowley had made, and vanish.

The Lizard King laughs. "Now you're men!"

Incest is best.

The Leather Messiah's dark laughter and his grunting lust echoes in Skunk's and Snake's ears as they ride back down into the world of men, looking for hell to raise.