The Familiar

Prologue: Enthrallment

He had no family -- no one of his kind could trace their genesis to any other thing than the brief coupling of power as it rubbed and melded with a piece of Earth. Rock or soil -- it did not matter, as long as it had once been churned and turned liquid in the flowing center before returned to the outer edges, imbued with great potential.

Despite his never having had a family, He recalled what the great Mother whispered to him, as he came, fully formed, from innards the split rock that was filled with those jagged teeth of quartz. "Beautiful one, I have only one thing to teach all of my children, and it is that even the proudest bends to the will of Love."

After all that he had gone through, in his short five years of immortality induced by the three small drops of liquified plants that were dripped on the quartz, ("Aloe, Basil, Caraway -- A-B-C," the girl had once told him with an embarrassed giggle, followed by a luxurious moan) He had no pride to speak of that had ever been endowed to him.

He had been ordered to crouch with his back against the corner and to not look away. He had given it all -- even the part that was his, by the virtue of him being born of the Power -- to the one slithering, unspeakably entwined, betwixt the three men who had no knowledge of his presence. Even if they could see him, would they have lifted their attentions from the unnaturally beautiful woman they all embraced, supported and mounted in turn?

His kind fed on emotion and power, and grew their personalities and senses of selves from whatever they were given. Prior to that dark night, He was privy to warmth and, if not exactly love in return for what grew to become unwavering devotion, kindness.

As He sat on lean haunches, the tears sticking his ragged hair to his face and his elongated claws bringing forth a harvest of blood from the hands they buried their tips into, He felt a transmutation of his very being taking place in countless explosive conflagrations taking place in his chest. The flames ate everything they touched, and even in the midst of the sort of unnameable horror that took Him prisoner, he feared that he would burn in that horrible room and take her with him.

Moments later, watching with dreadful clarity as the Mayor slid his mouse's cock from her glisteningly wet, perfectly shaved (did they know just HOW immaculate she could make herself? And through what means she did it?) cunt, He found that the thought of burning her alive -- the screaming, the transformation of creamy, warm flesh into so much slough and blackened bone -- left a pleasant aftertaste in his mouth.

In the theme of taste, He then watched as the farm hand -- the only one of the three men chosen for the pendulous cock that almost looked laughably ridiculous, attached to the thin frame of the boy -- jerked, and with a loud cry came with the reddened tip of his penis stuck in the plump, sucking lips of His Master.

The butcher, who held the slender body of the Master above his own stout and heavily muscled own, panted, dog-like, as he pumped his own stout, thick, meat into her perfectly curvaceous ass. He did not seem to falter in the least, as the Mayor awkwardly moved from off top of the Master and brought his cock to her face for a spirited exploration of her mouth. From the moment that He had laid burning eyes on the older man that night, he had hoped for his body to give out, as he filled his Master with his unworthy and far from adequate penis.

If he were found dead in his Master's bedroom, what would the village, already just barely tolerating her presence, do to her?

Stuck by her command as He was, he could not test out this theory for himself. All he could ever do, now, was watch.

The one thing that his Master had no power of in him was the mounting rage that was left in the smoldering remains of what he felt for her, now. The only question which remained in his mind was what he was to do with this newly discovered darkness that lay, coiled, in that pit within him.

As he watched the mayor, who looked grotesquely ridiculous with his red face and his powdered wig just barely clinging to his eggs-shaped head, as he coated the Master's face in a thin layer of cum, He smiled with his too-large, elongated lips with no remnant of cheer in it He believed that as the men pulled away from her, he could see his Master glance over at him, and, seeing his disturbing smile, she frowned, as something deceivingly human and frail (a remnant of the girl who had made him a crown of wildflowers, only four summers ago?) appeared, for a moment, in her eyes and expression.