Chapter 4, for your pleasure, dear readers. :)
There isn't as much sexual congress in this chapter, but that is because the story needs more history to it for you to appreciate what underpins it. Chapter 5, I promise, will have more sex as the story moves forward.
Enjoy!
*****
Buhawi stopped mid-stroke, a sudden constriction of his windpipe and loss of air making it hard for him to finish his sensual game of choke the chicken. The hand cupping his balls fisted reflexively, delivering more pain than pleasure as it gripped his testicles way too hard, but not hard enough to make his erection wilt or stop the escalation of his need to come.
He tried to focus his thoughts on the three squat, black black candles that cast weak, flickering light in their beds of salt lining pewter holders by the bed, on the feel of Tala's silky half-slip in his hand and wrapped around his throbbing tumescence. He couldn't.
All Buhawi could make sense of was his the wild jerking of his cock, as he strangled the ever-hardening member, ripping pleasure from his bones in a growing trap of pain. But for the bit of silk in his hand, he'd flay his granite erection with just the strength of his grip. As it was, he feared he'd break the thing in half, though he could not stop.
Buhawi struggled for breath as his cock jerked, having a mind of it own and demanding brutal, relentless satisfaction, never mind if he died. His dick throbbed and swelled even harder, pulsing as keen blades of the strongest (and strangest) orgasm he'd ever experienced blackened the edges of his vision.
She's learned the kontra to my dream-manipulation
, was the thought that stood out against the panic flooding Buhawi's brain and triggering a strong release of adrenalin that made his body tense and thrash about even more.
When his limbs finally stopped jerking gracelessly and the invisible hand clamped around his throat let go, Buhawi dragged air into his lungs in huge gulps and closed his eyes because the world was spinning so fast his surroundings blurred.
Buhawi's bedroom ebbed out of sight as he pushed his head back and felt his very soul jet out of his cockhead, the pleasure radiating from beneath his tailbone, through his belly and groin and up and out. Semen painted his belly and lower chest and his scream of completion was primal, pulled from the very marrow of his bones.
He was shaking and barely hanging on to consciousness when he heard her voice chanting. Then he found himself transported to the sofa in her living room, his masturbation suddenly rewound to the point where he'd begun to truly choke.
Not again
, he groaned inwardly, his body ignoring the frantic commands of his brain that it cease the torture.
Tala knelt in front of him, her back curving in a backward arc, its dips and rises thrown into dancing shadows by the candlelight. Her form was graceful, nude and sheened in sweat. She was releasing her deathly grip on the neck of a black chicken and had risen into a half-crouch that allowed him to see the sheen of her feminine arousal on the insides of her thighs.
Buhawi felt himself compelled to rise from the sofa as his orgasm came to that peak between agony and ecstasy, and he moved swiftly among the lit candles to stand before Tala, his bare buttocks turned to the glass of her sliding door.
He pumped harder, tighter, faster, with his hips and ass rising and falling at a frantic gallop. He felt his coming crest in splashing hot bursts that landed on Tala's breasts, her belly, the top of her
puki
where her clitoris stood tall, inviting the touch of the black feathers she was stroking around and over it. He heard her gasp out the last of her chant, fighting the loss of words by force of will alone.
Her body was flushed a delicious gold and pink in the soft glow of concentric rings of candles and salt. Buhawi felt himself bellow a resonating "YESSSSS! By Bulan's lost eye, YES! By Bathala's rock-hard cock, yes."
Oh fuck, FUCK the Old Gods and fuck all Taga-Lupa
, he thought as he faded out of Tala's living room, his knees buckling under him.
She's bound me. The bitch.
It was on that note of exquisitely agonizing pleasure and the first true flash of defeat that Buhawi landed facedown on his custom-built bed and, barely conscious, passed out as the candles on his bedside table guttered and drowned in black pools of wax and salt.
***
Now, for my next trick, I will dream-walk
, the Tikbalang said wryly in his mind as his spirit entered the Other Land, his father's realm to which he was heir.
Or, rather, dream-run
. He set out by cantering on his unshod hooves, his nostrils flared wide in a fit of temper. His tail flicked like a cat o'nine tails in a torturer's hands and his cantering lope sped to a gallop.
The Tikbalang rushed past rugged terrain strewn with granite and sandstone boulders, past burbling streams decorated with varicolored bioluminescence and through tall patches of
cogon
grass. Without breaking pace, he jumped across ravines, over fallen tree trunks and from one rugged rise to another.
He'd barely evaded the hillocks of Nunos, was feeling the humidity within the triple-canopy jungle's tunnel of bark and leaf. Razorback boar and pygmy deer shied away from the staccato of his hoofbeats, and tropical birds took flight to the very top of the rainforest canopy in alarm at his passage.
A winding, stone-laid path walled in by bamboo groves and hardwood trees was strewn with glowing rubies and sapphires that lit Buhawi's way to the entrance of a large clearing where the
Diwata
were singing to and fussing over large flowers and creepers blooming with colorful fruit and glossy leaves that spanned every shade of green.
The bark of the massive trees was traced in cold, colorful lights limning lyric poems written in
Baybayin: Dalits
mourning the ones who had passed into the Skyworld to sit with the Old Gods, and
Awit
that rejoiced over the immortality granted to the royal ones who ruled in this domain.
The stars peeked brightly through the few spaces between the leaves, throbbing like the hardness at his groin that refused to ebb. The scent of night-blooming jasmine,
kalamansi
blossoms and
dama de noche
filled the air Buhawi was breathing in heavy gasps caused by his unrestrained run through the thick undergrowth and on the stone path.
There, his father held court on a gem-studded and gilded throne grown from a mighty
molave
trunk which had stood for milennia, its gnarled roots making ornate armrests upon which the roan-pelted Tikbalang King rested strong, immense hands, and natural steps down to the rich leaf-covered black loam of the rainforest floor.
"
Itay!
" the young stallion's bellow was meant to draw the King's attention, for the greatest of all Tikbalang was engrossed in a book, an old one, by the look of it's covering of ironwood bark.
"You and I know I am your father, Buhawi Unos Batumbakal, there is no need to yell. I may be old, but I am not deaf," chuckled the elder Tikbalang as he set the book down on his throne's broad arm. "Here I was, enjoying the ancient
T'nalak
verse, and you come barging into my throne room as if the jungle would collapse."
"What brings you home in such a state? And with a raging erection, too. Have I taught you no manners, princeling?" The Tikbalang King cupped his chin in his right hand, put his right elbow on the armrest of his throne and picked up a polished
narra
goblet of fermented nectar drawn from millions of tiny
santan
flowers, the beverage only the reigning King may drink.
"The
