by Jeff Gelb
Artie’s thrusts gained urgency and seemed to reach up into her chest, making her nipples crackle with electricity even as he approached his climax, taking her with him while she masturbated the metallic hard-on in her hand, until Artie finally exploded, sending jets of his seed deep into her. The phallic lever spurted hot come into her palm, and she groaned and came as she’d never been able to before. She felt Artie’s semen sliding along his shriveling member and down her thighs in cooling rivulets.
When she opened her eyes and stared at herself, her hair was its normal color again, and her hand still gripped the lowered seat bracket, but it was dry and not fleshy at all. What the hell had made her think otherwise? She shook her head, dazed, then unstraddled him. They cleaned up as best they could. Artie wouldn’t look at her as he jabbed the Hold button and they began to descend. Her body still tingled where Artie’d plunged into her. And the elevator seemed to tingle at her touch as she slowly returned the seat bracket to its upward position, wondering at what she’d felt—how real it had seemed.
Just then the doors opened. Mark stood outside, his wide grin turning into another leer as he saw her hand leave the bracket. Susan knew their disheveled clothing was a giveaway, that and their sweat-stained faces. She took Artie’s hand and pulled him docilely out of the elevator, spotting her torn black lace panties in the corner, but too late.
“We’ll see you soon!” she babbled as they burst out into the lobby and headed for the street door.
“Nice to meet you!” Mark called out after them as the door closed. Susan thought she glimpsed him bending over to grasp her panties. She laughed until tears came. And, for once, even Artie seemed to think what had happened was one for the books.
Two weeks later their furniture arrived, and after rearranging the couch and armchair seemingly a hundred times, they went shopping for new furniture. As they left, they ran into Mark and said hello. Both of them burst out laughing as soon as they were away from the building. Artie hadn’t talked much about “the incident” in the elevator, but Susan couldn’t get it out of her mind.
Days, while working, Susan thought about Mark’s lips, wanting to crush hers against them. At night, while Artie gigged, Susan fantasized about Mark sliding in and out of her. When she made love to Artie, vigorous, aggressive lovemaking unlike what she’d once preferred, it was Mark she thought of. For his part, Artie had begun to talk less, withdrawing into his music and sleeping later into the day after late-night gigs. He let Susan use his body like a love toy, but his emotions seemed to drift further and further away from his flesh and its needs. She wondered if he could sense her feelings for Mark.
And then, a month after moving in, Susan discovered a fresh need.
She’d been riding the elevator to the basement laundry facilities all afternoon, finding herself becoming more and more aroused. Her lingerie retrieved in a basket, her thoughts turned to the lost black lace panties. She was sure Mark had them. He seemed to smile at her too widely every time he passed her in the hall. And did she catch him winking at her whenever she entered or left the elevator?
Mark rode the elevator a lot, and Susan had started to ride it as much as she could. Even though she had promised herself to use the stairs for exercise, whenever she walked past the elevator to the stairs, she was drawn to the button and found herself calling for the car. She felt a strange tingle every time she touched the buttons inside or out of the car, and today the temptation to ride was too strong once again.
She caressed the button, watched the rubber labia opening to swallow her body, and then once inside turned to see herself in the mirror. Her hair always looked red in the smoky mirror, and she always seemed flush with desire. This time, her mind had already presented her with the solution to her needs. She pinched the Hold button between her fingers like a nipple, then wrapped her hand around the phallic lever and swung it down so it pointed at her like an erection out of a Giger catalogue. Excitement flowed down her inner thighs as she turned and raised her leather skirt, baring her buttocks. She’d taken to skipping panties on wash days, or any days she might bump into Mark. But now her need was greater than she had expected, and she bent over and backed herself toward the rubber-encased phallus, feeling it meet her lower lips at exactly the right height. And angle. She skewered herself on its fist-sized head and felt herself slide over its length as if it had been created for her.
Perhaps it was, a voice spoke within her, but she dismissed it as her own sense of humor.
Her first orgasm rocked her within seconds, and she rode it and felt the second and third building even as the first crested. She let the elevator fuck her until the sweat poured down her cheeks and pooled on the carpeting below, watching herself the whole time in the mirror. Seeing someone else smiling in the reflection, and not caring.
Rumors spread that the elevator wasn’t working, but Susan knew it was her trysts that kept it out of service. Mark winked at her every time he saw her, as if he knew. Artie grew colder and more distant every day. And nights he’d once stayed home he now found gigs to fill.
Susan felt herself splitting apart—one side wanted to repair her relationship with Artie, while the other wanted to do lewd things in the elevator, with or without Mark. Like most people locked in self-conflict, Susan wished she could do both. While it tore her apart, she found herself irresistibly drawn to the elevator. And once there, she surrendered to her desires in ways she could barely admit to herself were unlike her. Yet she felt so good, she couldn’t stop.
They had moved in weeks ago, but she had only recently noticed the machine-whirring sounds coming from behind the wall in their spare bedroom. This was the farthest wall from their front door, and she’d heard it late one night when she’d been working at her desk as postgig Artie snored the sleep of the half-drunk in their bed.
The whirring wasn’t continuous. It started and stopped irregularly, and soon Susan realized that it sounded like the elevator being called and traveling like a phallus up and down in its enclosure. Just thinking about it made her wet.
The intensity of her excitement easily overwhelmed any guilt she might have acknowledged.
She opened the closet and leaned in, hearing the motor turning nearby.
So near!
She found a seam in the drywall and used her sharp letter-opener to pry off a large triangular portion of painted drywall, which split and tore, becoming paper and chalk in her hand.
Flickering light shimmered in the darkness beyond.
Susan felt a deep shiver work its way down her back. For some reason, she felt hot wetness begin to gather between her thighs.
Without hesitation, Susan reached into the hole and tore out another chunk of drywall.
She had to get into that space, whatever it was!
Ducking, she crawled through the hole and found herself in some sort of shrine. The shimmering light came from dozens—no, it had to be hundreds—of lit candles of all shapes and sizes. Melted wax had crusted along the length of most, but she could clearly see that many of the tapers had been phallic in nature. Flickering dildo-shaped candles covered every flat surface, their flames dancing in the rush of air caused by her entrance. As her eyes adjusted to the gloom, she realized that the extensive shrine had been carved out of the elevator mechanical room, which apparently butted up against the rear of their apartment.
Everywhere hung or leaned paintings and photographs of the lusty Aurora, some clearly taken from old movie magazines. They were ringed by ranks of shimmering candles by the light of which she saw numerous vases as well as Greek urns and pottery that might have been imitations but which she somehow knew were quite ancient. She approached one and gingerly picked it up, her fingers tracing the erotic design of women bent over and being penetrated from behind by well-endowed males. The next vase showed a ring of figures entwined in an orgy of genitalia and mouths. A set of ornate platters portrayed various sexual positions between various combinations of genders. One included a pair of hounds. She picked up a
cracked pitcher and found that the handle she grasped was an enormous phallus complete with scrotum.
She turned, and on another surface stood a collection of wooden dildos, from three inches long to about fifteen. She touched the tip of the largest, and a spark jabbed her fingertip.
Voices seemed to whisper in her head. She felt the urge to reach under her skirt and swallow the gnarled phallus with her moist flesh. Her fingers encircled the sleek wood.
In the center of this phallic collection sat a bowl, Sapphist in design. A bit of black cloth resting in the bottom of it tugged at Susan’s attention. She reached in and pulled out a pair of black lace panties, her panties.
She whirled when she heard a loud click. A column of light dispelled the gloom and broke her trance.
“Who—who’s there?” Her voice cracked. Then she gasped. She could see Mark’s profile in the doorway.
“Relax, Susan,” he said, a smile in his voice. “You’re the One. You’re the Chosen.”
“Wh-what?” Susan felt an equal mixture of fear and lust, both fueled by the grotesque shrine to Aurora DiLuisas and its ancient erotic artifacts.
Mark came slowly closer, his hands reaching out to her.
“Aurora herself selected you from the many we have seen come and go,” he said, his voice soft and musical. “And come,” he added. “You’ve noticed that your urges have been on the rise, yes?”
Susan thought she heard Mark’s New York accent peel away like dead skin flaking off a snake.
“Aurora left us while in the elevator and has been using it as a temporary domicile until a more suitable vessel could be found. You are that vessel, Susan.”
A part of Susan wanted to run back through the hole in the wall and rouse Artie to help her. But an unnaturally strong desire, tenfold stronger than any longing she had ever experienced before, held her fast.
Suddenly Mark dropped his pants in one fluid motion and stood near, his erection pointing straight at her, and his lips—of which she’d dreamed so long—now only inches from hers. Her mouth slowly came to touch his, and down below her hand guided his scalding-hot penis toward her flesh. She felt his glans tease her outer labia and start to penetrate, and her thighs turned to butter and melted into him.
“Aurora has waited a long time, a very long time,” he said, speaking directly into her mouth as his tongue reached out to hers. “I have tested so many and found them wanting.” He nuzzled her neck and drove himself another inch into her. The position would not have worked, but Susan’s suspicions had been correct and Mark’s erect penis was enormous, for she could feel that he still had length to give her. Now his mouth was on her nipples, driving her wild even as another inch of him slid into her folds.
“Oh Mark,” she whispered.
“Aurora, I have brought you the One.” His teeth nipped a nipple; then he withdrew from her and turned her around. He flicked the skirt up and with his hands spread her labia apart. With the longest dildo from the collection, he prepared her to receive his burning flesh. The wooden phallus was cold and yet radiated heat, and it seemed to melt her insides.
Then Mark withdrew the ancient artifact and entered her. Susan gasped with pleasure and pain, almost fainting, her eyes glazed. And when he drove farther into her, she wondered for a moment if she could possibly take his entire length. But then he pulled her head back toward him and doubled her pleasure by thrusting even deeper within her. Her orgasms began to roll in waves and she barely heard him. Her vision failed, and the room became a blur.
“Aurora, I have brought you a Vessel worthy of your lust and of your ambition, and I give her to you as a gift of gratitude for the immortality you will grant me.”
Susan heard, but her ears were muffled by the roaring of her blood singing through her veins like floodwater through a canyon. She felt as if Mark’s erection was splitting her open from top to bottom, and suddenly she felt another presence—another presence inside her. How could this be possible?
How?
Susan heard a voice. “You will need the final offering, Marcus! You must have an offering to complete the transfer ...”
Susan gasped. It was her own voice, but she hadn’t spoken the words.
Just then she heard a crashing, tearing, and pounding coming from the hole she had torn in the drywall.
“What the fuck is going on here?”
Artie! Artie had found her and was coming to rescue her.
Susan opened her mouth but emitted no sound other than a lustful purring that she knew—knew beyond any doubt—must have been Aurora’s.
“Welcome, Artie,” said Mark from behind her. And suddenly he withdrew from her and she saw him leap like a panther over her and toward Artie, whose eyes could not have yet adjusted to the light. In Mark’s hand, a curved dagger glimmered in the dancing candlelight.
Oh no! Artie!
The broad slash slit Artie’s throat and almost severed his head, sending a great curtain of blood gushing over her bare flesh. He crumpled into a heap. While Artie’s feet still twitched, Mark went to work with the dagger and one of the erotically designed dishes. Susan could barely make out the butcher-shop sounds that came next. She was receding: the sound of blood rushing in her ears had become a din of white noise, and her glazed vision had tunneled and was now fading into darkness.
“You must move quickly, Marcus!” Aurora’s whisper was a hiss.
“The blood sacrifice is done, my Aurora,” said Marcus.
When he turned, he saw Susan rising to her feet.
But now her hair was flaming red in the candlelight, and her eyes were no longer glazed.
Aurora had returned, and now her mood needed an elevator. “Come to me, Marcus,” she purred, and he brought his blood-splattered flesh to her, letting her sink to her knees before him.
There was nothing left of Susan but the Vessel. But that was the last thing on Marcus’s mind.
The Thirteen Locks
Dave Zeltserman
A hand clapped me on the back of the shoulder. I could barely believe it when I turned and saw Roger Hormsley’s round, pink-cheeked face beaming at me.
“Jack, Jack McFarssen,” he exclaimed as he held out a damp hand. “Jesus, of all places to run into you, downtown Manhattan. Last I heard you were skulking around the banks of the Euphrates. Would you mind?”
He was referring to the empty chair at my table. I have to admit seeing him was a shock. As casually as I could, I signaled for him to join me. Hormsley, of all people. Such rotten, putrid luck. If that’s what it was.
“Roger, quite a surprise,” I said. “And no, I don’t know what you’ve heard, but I haven’t been near the Euphrates. Too dangerous these days with what’s going on in Iraq.”
He smiled thinly, then looked past me to wave over the barmaid. When she came to the table, Hormsley smiled broadly at her, showing off his perfect white teeth, and told her that he was guessing I was drinking my usual, twenty-four-year-old Macallan.
“Yes, sir,” she said.
“Well, then, set me up with the same and bring another for my old friend.”
He watched her as she walked away, his smile fading and his small eyes turning dull. When he looked back at me, his round, jolly face was lifeless. “Jack, rumor has it you’ve been searching for the Scrolls of Hazaa.”
“Roger, I’ve been stateside the past six months. San Francisco, if you must know. What made you think I was in Iraq?”
“Charles Lutton. He saw it with that glass of his.”
The barmaid returned with our drinks, and I was grateful for it. Charles Lutton! I should’ve expected as much. Spying on me with that glass dragon’s eye of his. A shriveled prune of a man, more gristle at this point than flesh. If he were broken open, there would probably be nothing more than rust in his veins. How old was he? A hundred years? Two hundred? All I knew was he’d been in the occult game longer than anyone could guess. Hormsley and I had both been in it for over twenty years and were novices compared to Lutton. Of course
, as experienced as Lutton was, as far into the dark shadows as he may have slid, he didn’t have in his possession the Scrolls of Hazaa. I did.
My hand shook slightly as I brought the scotch to my lips. Hormsley noticed, and it showed briefly in his eyes. I waited until the barmaid left and then told him that Lutton must be playing with him.
“Must be.”
“Or maybe that damn dragon eye of his has been clouded up by cataracts. Making San Francisco Bay look like the Euphrates.”
“Hmm-hmm.” He took a slow sip of his scotch. “So, Jack, what were you doing in San Fran?”
“I heard there was a copy of L’Occulto Illuminato hidden there.”
“And did you find it?”
“No.”
“Of course not. All known copies were destroyed in the sixteenth century.”
I shrugged and made a weak excuse about how I’d been tracking down a bum tip. Hormsley stared at me intently as he sipped his scotch. He leaned forward, his tongue darting out and licking his lips.
“I believe what Charles told me,” he said. “He was quite earnest.”
I could imagine that. Anyone would be quite earnest knowing the Scrolls of Hazaa had not only been unearthed but had fallen into the hands of a skilled occultist like myself. I forced a laugh. “This is ridiculous,” I said. “If I did have the scrolls, what would I be doing in New York?”
“Akkadian is a tricky language. Outside of you, myself, and Charles, there are maybe a handful of people alive who could decipher it. One of them is Professor Tappani at Columbia. My guess is you’ve come here for his help.”
“No, Roger, I’m not here to see Professor Tappani. I’m here to rest a bit and take advantage of Christmastime in New York. Nothing more.”
His eyes bored into me as he edged closer. He said, “Look, Jack, I can help you with the scrolls. The nuances of Akkadian are immense, but together we could translate them without error. There’s no reason the two of us couldn’t enter the Hall of Hazaa. As one man, you’d have to solve all thirteen locks by yourself. Why not do it together? Both of us could have what the scrolls promise. Immortality. Agelessness. Virility of a god. Why not, Jack?”
