Empire of Flesh

*A secret story I've had for awhile, but was saving for release this Halloween.*

*

He could still hear her moaning; from just outside the bathroom door, where he had sealed himself, he could hear the gleeful grunts and ribald snarls of his latest conquest. It wasn't supposed to be this way, of course. He had taken precautions; or...thought he did. Clencing the towel rack in frustration, he reminded himself of his Vow, that he would never again transform a woman. It was a lofty, beknighted goal, his Vow was the sort of goal that made you feel better for having said it; although deep in your heart, you know that it cannot be.

So it was with Harrison. He should have known better, in retrospect. Darcy had spent over 24 hours in his company; more than enough time for the Curse, yet he'd only agreed to meet her in public places, where nothing untoward could happen. That's what he told himself.

"Am I such a fool, that I didn't believe she could have followed me?" He shook his spiky blond head in disbelief. No...he could not afford the luxury of such delusions, there was every reason to guess what would have happened tonight. Harrison's squared jaw clenched as he bit his lip and moved the handle of a nearby mop to wedge it between the doorknob and the toilet to try and jam the door. That should hold her for the moment.

His victims didn't seem dangerous; But those afflicted with his Curse seemed capable of the impossible, to sate their consuming passion. The frantic knocking, pounding on the white door made it difficult to concentrate.

"Darcy...listen! You need to get to a hospital! You're not well! This isn't like you!" Harrison shouted, as if by protesting enough, he would undo the damage that was already irreversible. "You are an educated young lady! You've made the Dean's List! You told me you wanted to found a Historical Preservation Society someday! Remember your dreams! Remember who you are!" he pleaded.

The initial response to his entreaties was a girlish twitter. "Silly Harry! I know who I am! I'm Linda Bordeaux! See, I know how strippers pick their names! You take yer....middle name.....aaannnnnnd...the street you grew up on! And that'll be my name when I jiggle my titties in front'a all the guys down at Titopia Triple X!" more giggling."But then, after I've saved up enough fer my first boob job, I can get a big titty name! Liiiiiiike...... Jolena Juggs! orrrr maybe... Titania Titmouse!! *te-he*"

Harrison grit his teeth, knowing that his words were futile even as he spoke them. "Your name is Darcy Linda Morgenstein! You're a Classical History Major! You're doing a thesis on Cultural Dissemination of the linguistic patterns of asiatic barbarians after the collapse of the Roman Empire!" Harrison insisted.

"I'm through with dumb, boring, old history. And I don't need any hospitals! I just need you to come...come out of there....come...out....in...." Strange grunts could be heard from outside the door. Was she pleasuring herself right here? "Cum....on me...cum...in me.... cum...on my tits! On my ass! On my face!!!" Her words, already muffled by the door, descended into incoherent murmurings.

Nodding stoically; Harrison knew what he had to do. Darcy or....'Linda Bordeaux' as she would now call herself, was going to need help. After his Curse, Day-to-Day living could become an insurmountable challenge; but Harrison was prepared, he'd dealt with this exact situation many, many, many times before. It was not only the giggling, indecent woman who was in denial; he had tried to ignore the truth himself. But no longer.

His penis reminded him of what had to be done. His stone-washed denim jeans tented and began to thrash as a phallic monster of obscene strength arose within those pants.

He gripped the rampant cock through his pants, snarling with frustration. "It won't...can't....go on like this...I will NOT be ruled by you! I will escape this Curse! I will stop destroying lives! But....for now....Darcy needs help.... the kind of help that only I can give her." His ice-blue eyes shone with resolve as he unjammed the door, grabbed a tube of lipstick, and went to face the horror he had wrought.

**********

It had started innocently, as all his encounters did. Each time he Cursed a woman, Harrison Coxswift told himself that this was the last time. And each time, his flinty blue eyes looked back and analyzed what he coulda'shoulda'woulda' done differently. So it was now, now he had to retrace his steps, look at the mistakes made, and Vow to not let it happen again! There were....how many?

Ultimately, Harrison had never hurt anyone, physically at least, yet he felt like a serial killer for the lives he had destroyed. After a while, he had just lost count of the many, many women, all over the U.S., and Europe too. (Why did I believe that the Curse would be any different overseas?)

For years, Harrison had simply fled. Running, always running away from the horror his life had become. But the women in Italy proved just as susceptible to the Monster that thrashed inside his pants - he had ruined the lives of...of...how many Italians had he corrupted? In the end, he had to leave that country sooner than he planned; the women were less inhibited, and that allowed his Curse to work even faster!

But over the years, he'd worked out a....rhythm as it were. There was a means to minimize the damage done to the women that fell under his spell. The shame of it! The disgrace of what he had to do to help his victims made him loathe himself just as much as the aftermath of the Curse itself!

There were warning signs; as there always were. He had agreed to help tutor Darcy mainly to assuage his conscience; for despite the wreakage his life had become, Harrison could acknowledge honestly that he was a near-genius in a wide variety of academic subjects.

Not that Darcy really needed tutoring, but she was weak in a few subjects and was determined to do whatever necessary to not lose her high average. But then, in a terrible twist of fate, the subject matter turned to her specialty of Classical History.

"It's the University library, very public." Harrison thought. "We're out in the open, on a couch in the central lobby on the first floor, here below all the ghosts and witch Halloween decorations. What could happen? There's no danger." That was it, that was always the lie he tried to feed to himself. No danger. No danger....

"....But this degree of fixation is just too extreme to be explained by the age difference between her and her husband Claudius!" Darcy insisted. Thumbing through hastily-scribbled history notes. She blinked her eyes as a loose strand of long, mouse-brown hair fell between her eyes and glasses.

"It's enough to support a tentative hypothesis that there was some form of neglect or abuse within the Messala family." She adjusted her plain, white T-shirt, her slim chest evidenced not a trace of bosom underneath the crisp, white shirt.

"Hmmm.... not necessarily," Harrison began. "Pre-Christian Roman Culture was rife with sexual license that might be considered perverse today. For instance, there was no conception of a difference between hetero and homo-sexuality; it was a more of a free-for-all. A wealthy Roman could have sexual relations with all of his female employees, or slaves, and it would not be considered a vice. This attitude surely influenced the women as strongly as the men."

"But like this!?" Darcy exclaimed, her hazel eyes widening behind coke-bottle glasses. " According to rumors at the time, The Empress Valeria Messalina was known to have worked her way through the entire, thousand-man Praetorian Guard. She was known to have bedded all of the most attractive men in Rome, and perhaps most of the least attractive as well. Think of it! Sex with a Thousand men!" This was the first stage; unbridled sexual curiosity would afflict women prior to their surrender to Harrison's Curse.

"In our c-culture, that would certainly be considered pathological, but other societies had different...standards..." her tutor stammered. What were the odds that this conversation would strike so close to home!? He knew all there was to know on this subject; Harrison Coxswift had learned more than he ever wanted to know about the corrupt Empress Messalina.

Fingers nearly trembling with barely suppressed, vicarious enjoyment, Darcy read on from her notes.

"But her most famous exploit was sort of a sexual olympics against Rome's most famous prostitute; a woman named Scylla; after the mythological sea-monster with an insatiable appetite for sailors.

"Messalina challenged Scylla to determine who could satisfy the most men in one night." Darcy's narrowing eyes and labored breathing betrayed more than simply academic interest as she read further.

"By dawn, the contest was a draw, each woman having pleasured twenty-five men each. Yet Scylla, unable to defeat the Empress was shamed, and in disgrace retired from prostitution that very day. The Poet Juvenal said that as Messalina returned to the palace, she was exhausted, but never....never satisfied!

"I think she'd be worth a research project in her own right!" remarked Darcy. By now, Harrison knew that the situation had gone too far; he excused himself for a moment, and discreetly fled from the library, never intending to return. Just a quick trip back to his room to pack his bags....

Such a hasty departure was necessary; because there was more to this story: It was known only to a tiny circle of experts in forgotten lore that Valeria Messalina had dabbled extensively in Eastern Sorceries before her untimely death. And Harrison's first research fellowship had led him to Italy, where he had chanced upon an ancient, hidden and forgotten vault.

It was after that day that he lost all desire to uncover secret lore and the arcane mysteries of the ancients. What he had unleashed inside that decaying, mouldering catacomb had made his life the living hell that it would be forever more.

**********

"Ashley! Ashley! Yer the Best! I...l-love you babe....*unnnhh*" gurgled her latest prize, as the blond surfer released both praise and spunk into the writhing feminine form quivering above him.

"I never....it's never been like this....cum...so many times..." he rasped, as sweat poured down his chiseled face. Ashley smiled and yelped in womanly passion as her pelvis, slick with sexual juices shuddered once more. While it had never been this good for the man, it had always been like this for Ashley. Not her real name of course; but one she preferred in this day and age. It might attract undue attention to call yourself Astarte these days.

The cool streetlights beaming in out the third-story window cast blue pools of luminesence on her perfect skin, and her perfect mane of luxurious hair - which seemed blond at first, yet also a reddish-copper. While her lustrous tresses seemed as perfectly groomed and pampered as her silken-soft skin, neither had required any real grooming in three hundred years. But these days, the humans could do wonderful things in their salons. Perhaps she should change her style.

"I....I need more...m-more..." gurgled Surfer Dude, weakly reaching towards the sleek canteloupe-like breasts that dangled inches away. But then, after the third orgasm, her men always seemed even more lustful than before they'd first cum in her. That was the effect she had. She could keep the surfer happy, for a long, long while, and herself as well. But Astarte didn't want to leave this city just yet, and therefore the last thing she needed was a trail of bodies wherever she spent the night.

But before leaving, she bent low, running her moist, pink lips over her man's chest, trailing her slender tongue over his hardened body, going from navel to throat. Not merely a titilatting gesture, for she now had his scent, and could track this man from many miles away if she decided to finish him off sometime.

She rose to leave, sleek curves glistening in the wan, ambient light. Astarte would have a bit of fun; she put on her pink-lace panties and custom-made bra.....and decided to make the long walk back to her car alone, at night, clad only in her underwear. She giggled with glee at the prospect of what might happen! If she was lucky, perhaps a gang of young toughs would try to rape her! That was always worth a chuckle!

"Wait...I....*unnnnngh*" Surfer Dude was trying to rise, trying to follow her, but despite his youth and health, he found himself unable to muster the strength needed to push himself off the bed.

"Whoa...musta had...one too many....down in the bar...tonight..." he wheezed. What an amusing century this was; Astarte mused. A thousand years ago, her male prey quickly realized exactly what was happening to them! But there was no room for creatures of myth and legend, like her. Back in those days, she'd had to simply eat and run, as it were. Feed upon no more than two men, before fleeing, or hibernating for a decade or three. But now, now Astarte could simply travel, travel the world over, gorging herself on men and their essence like never before!

She chuckled as she turned back to regard her bedmate. Her sparkling blue eyes held a note of bemused cruelty.....or was it green eyes? At first, the man watching her had thought they seemed blue, or blue-green, yet now they seemed almost violet. She closed the door behind her to the cheap motel they had rented. His feelings needed no mollifying.

So she strode boldly, clad only in the briefest underwear as she left down the rear stairwell to the backalley exit. The sharp nails and traces of broken glass meant nothing to her as she strode barefoot by a round-about route back to her parking lot, gliding through the darkness and dampness like the dream of a fitness model photographer come to life.

Suddenly, she smelled a faint dose of a familar male essence, and heard hoarse breathing from around the next corner. Centuries of human observation told the ancient being that this was a man preparing an ambush, for her no doubt!

Her smile glistening shark-like as she shuddered with anticipation. Her breasts throbbed, and began to surge upwards in the lacy cups that bound them. In moments, silky slopes rose like yeast-laden bread-dough until the jutting mounds above the lacy hem seemed as large as oranges....no...more like grapefruits...and still swelling upwards -

"Slow down, Astarte..." she whispered, rubbing her bust in an attempt to control the reaction. "If I keep getting excited I'll be too top-heavy to walk to my car!" But she did not begrudge the hot moisture in her groin, as her body tingled in expectation of what was to come.

Backalley muggings and rapes were the best; the same factors that criminals depended upon to catch vulnerable victims also ensured that they themselves could be vulnerable. By now, she could see the hunched shadow of the man waiting to surprise her. It was past 2 A.M., and there was no one else around these streets; that meant Astarte could feed! Truly feed! She could indulge herself without restriction or worry! Not like the half-hearted partial efforts she used with men like Surfer Dude. She was unable to stifle a low snarl in her throat as her erogenous centers came alive with heat and desire!

"Y-you! I've found you!" stammered a balding, fortyish stock-broker with beady eyes and pudgy fingers. Ah yes...she remembered this one! From...two days ago...

"Please! I don't know what....It doesn't matter how, but I....." through his murmurings, the she-devil gathered his meaning. He reached forth a hand, pleading....hoping....begging without words for another brush with paradise.

"I remember you..." she cooed. Her violet eyes widening as she ran a delicate finger up the sumptuous curves of her ageless, womanly hips. The man also, did not care about the hard debris of the alley floor, nor did he care about the breeze tonight, as he was wandering the city clad only in a hospital gown, with the remnants of a bandage in his right arm that must have once connected an intravenous tube.

"Yes....I know you. But you must tell me...speak the words...what do you wish of me?" she hissed in the darkness.

"Take m-me...again...like before...but for longer....mate with me....I need to feel you....need to be inside you.....I'll do...I'll give anything..." those beady eyes widened like a deer in headlights as sweat poured down his brow. "ANYTHING!" she had no doubt.

And this, this was another reminder of why Astarte had long ago put aside any notions of guilt for the final fate of her victims. Surely, the doctors must have told this man that whatever he'd been doing had placed an incredible strain on his metabolism, that he would have surely died without prompt medical attention. Surely, they would have told him. Yet he had escaped, fled while still hooked up to their equipment. Because once he had tasted her, embraced her, even the threat of death seemed hollow, if it was death in her arms. Every once in a while, there was a survivor of a long-term feeding. They always wanted the same thing. Again.

Her breasts pulsed, growing yet larger, as she opened her arms wide. This survivor would get what he craved, how could she deny him?

**********

He had relived the terrible moment in his mind, several times. And his excursion into the buried vault would haunt him for the rest of his life, no doubt. Yes, it dated back to at least 40 A.D., but.....these markings....no language that Harrison had ever seen, and he was fluent in ancient aramaic, latin, phoenician, and two Egyptian dialects. So this mouldering, decaying bastion could be....even older? His radio was still malfunctioning, but so great was his enthusiasm that he decided to go forward anyway, and investigate the site without waiting for his supervising professor.

The chamber was simple, a star-shaped open area with an altar in the center....wait....these walls; they were imbalanced, assymetrical. At first, Harrison assumed that some of the walls had partially collapsed from eons of erosion and pressure....but no. The walls were intact, but built in accordance with the architectural design of a madman.

And these etchings! A fluid, perverse script coated the gray-green walls like a smear of pestilence. The loopy icons were clearly the deliberate writing of an intelligence, yet they seemed more like a swarm of maggots than any human language. Nonetheless, like any proper student of archeology he began to take photos, and copious notes.

But further into the chamber the vermiform script changed into other languages; these must be translations. Eventually, he found one at the base of the central altar written in an archaic heiroglyphic variant prevalent near the end of Egypt's Old Kingdom period.

"Eihort, Eihort, Eihort - escape thy Bargain, yet borrow your power we must;

For Shub-Niggurath has awakened, sealing dooms with its Lust."

What the Hell? There were no Egyptian Pharoahs or Deities by those names! Under other circumstances, the intrepid researcher might have considered this some huge, insipid joke. Yet regardless, with the great age of this structure, it was a very old joke, if that. And still of great value.

What was so puzzling was that this insane crypt would have anything to do with a pampered princess of Imperial Rome! Still, her private, lost diary which Harrison had scrupulously translated named this precise location as her 'Place of Passion'. Harrison was expecting some sort of cushy, 1st-century love-shack or pleasure palace! Instead he got....but wait; there in the wall at a right angle from the dusty altar - there were eight skulls deliberately embedded in the mortar.

This put a new light on things; it was not uncommon for despots to use skilled craftsmen and learned scholars for special projects, then execute them. Her sexual indiscretions notwithstanding, Messalina was ruthless enough for that. These dead men had held knowledge that archeologists and anthropologists of today might consider killing for themselves! Yet no doubt, the vile empress had decided either to silence them, or ensure that there could be no repetition of the task they performed for her.