Gabrielle And The Devil

She crouched perfectly still, staring down at the hard cracked earth, remembering nothing yet somehow knowing all. Far above and beyond her, horrific otherworldly screams vied with bellows of warlike rage. She was bruised and defeated―still whole, but laid low as in some cataclysmic struggle. And she was naked. The garments of which she had been stripped in battle were straggling across the wind-blown earth in the periphery of her vision, a ruin of sundered white cloth. All that shielded her bared flesh from the roaring creatures wheeling high above her was a great feathered canopy, a canopy fused in bone to her shoulder-blades.

She raised her head, folding the dense appendages close over her exposed back and buttocks, and gazed across the vast fire-scorched plain. Far off she could see other crumpled forms, wings struggling feebly in final attempts to ward off their standing attackers. Further beyond, the glowering red sun was split by the horizon as it sank for the final time on Earth. The turbulent sky was darkening into brooding umber, though she could still pick out the dread sight of further great-winged monsters circling the carnage and roaring out their victory. Hope was dead. All left for the survivors was their dark fate.

This was not the foretold end. This was not what the Scriptures had promised. To be left crushed and deserted on this desolate dried-up field...

She heard it first, a base animal snorting that resonated all about her. Then the shadow fell across her face, all but casting her into night. Slightly turning her head she saw them, a pair of great cloven hooves, one grinding into the dust. She knew with the same surety by which she understood all else that it was Him. And among the horror was a faint, sinful glimmer of pride that he had come for her in person. She looked up and up―she could do no other―taking in his brute form. All his beautiful angelic disguise was dispelled in this, his moment of lustful, vainglorious conquest.

Her conqueror. Giant above her, towering nine feet, less a minotaur in aspect, more a terrifying cross-bred fusion of man and bull. The bulging haunches, the massively muscled chest, the rope-like sinews on his neck―all straining beneath a hide like thick dark-red leather. Great black horns curled outwards from his forehead and his eyes burned out of his cruel, swarthy face as if fuelled from some interior furnace.

Her conqueror―but not utterly if she resisted him. He could overwhelm her physically, but inside herself she must not succumb to him, to the mastery of his hellish presence. To the focal point of her rising, fascinated horror―the great phallus which rose from his loins like a sabre. Her eyes fixated on its mighty, thick-veined curve as it swayed in front of her face, more terrible and awe-inspiring than any weapon he might have used to subdue her in the air. His balls hung down between his massive thighs like huge granite eggs. She could almost smell the sulphurous brew within them.

He threw back his head and uttered a long, guttural roar, his forked, serpentine tongue thrashing the air. Then with the same whip-like motion, the long thick muscle lashed downwards, its twin tendrils lighting on her sternum. She gasped sharply and held back the air in her lungs, as his tongue slithered upwards between her breasts over the extended curve of her neck to her chin's tip. It flickered briefly, sickeningly at her lips, before retracting like reverse-lightening all the way inside his mouth.

Then he reached out a mighty taloned hand and drew her tiny face up and towards him, her hair fluttering in the hot breeze as he guided her. Resistance crumbled within. She could not hold back, could not even require him to force her.

But she spirited up the last of her fading courage and sealed her mouth tight against his intrusion. She remained resolute though trembling, as the obscenely glistening head of his great shaft smeared its vile mucus on her lips.

"WORSHIP ME." His words were a long distorted growl, torn from his throat. It reverberated around her and she shuddered. She shut her eyes and braced her whole being against him. But her nipples were beaded hard in the blasphemy of his presence. There was a betraying, melting sensation in her loins―unsought and inevitable. He was waiting, she knew, waiting for her to submit. Waiting for her lips to part through her own volition, so he could impale her near to her throat and pump his boiling, demonic seed into her stomach as though she welcomed it. She must not let him, she must not allow him that satisfaction. Take her body though he might, she must steel her soul against His...

"WORRSHHHIIP MEEEEE!!!"

~~~~

"And then?"

"That's it."

"That's

it

? Gabby, you can't pull 'and then I woke up' on me now. Not after the erectile demon and all the post-apocalyptic foreplay. There's

nothing

else?"

"Sorry to disappoint you, Dora. I can see you'd like to hear about me being ravished by Beelzebub. You're quite the sick puppy, you know that?"

"But he wanted you to submit all of your own accord. That's so frickin' sexy!"

"Sexy? It was a nightmare. I couldn't get to sleep again after."

"I'll bet you couldn't. Give me that kinda nightmare, I wouldn't bother dating anymore."

Gabrielle's reaction was a comedy of open-mouthed outrage. "Oh - oh - right, so I've just described your perfect guy―strong and silent type, horns, crappy attitude, with a penchant for world domination and damning all mankind."

"Horns I could cope with, the third one in particular." Pandora grinned, swilling the dregs of her rosé before draining the glass. "Seems a reasonable trade-off for the hooves and the tail."

"No tail," Gabrielle corrected, sipping from her own glass. "He was a kind of composite of various Devil mythologies."

"If you say so." Pandora rolled her eyes, refilled her glass and reclined back into the beanbag.

"He

was

," Gabrielle insisted. "The satyr was a creature from Greek myth, but in the Christian tradition it became viewed as demonic, what with it having a perpetual erection and all. So the whole Fallen Angel idea got combined with the horny goat. Only in my dream he was a bit more... bullish than goaty."

"So in other words," Pandora said knowingly, "you took all your favorite bits and made the whole thing over with a few hot touches of your own. You created your perfect demon."She chuckled at the exasperated look on her friend's face. "And cast yourself in the role of glamorous overthrown angel, made to submit to his every bestial desire. Yum."

"That's the other odd thing." Gabrielle frowned. "Traditionally angels are seen as either male or androgynous. It's only in Nativity plays that they're feminized. If you read

Paradise Lost

, you'll..."

"Never going to happen," Pandora assured her. "Look, Gabby, stop being an English teacher. Get your head out of your books. When you woke up, did you touch yourself?"

"What?"

"Don't get defensive with me, Miss Deangelo. When you were lying there with your head full of your big scary demon, did - you - masturbate?"

"Dora!"

"Did you?"

"Well

―

alright, yes."

"And?"

"And what?"

"What was the orgasm like? I can tell by your face right now you had one."

"It was... It was..." Pandora was nodding salacious encouragement, but though the word 'spectacular' occurred to Gabrielle, she refused to provide her friend with that much satisfaction. "It was good," she finished lamely, but there was a tremor in her voice and her nipples hardened as she said it.

"Ha!" Pandora took delight in her victory. "That dream means one thing

―

you need to get laid. Properly. By someone who knows what he's doing." She talked right over the semi-scandalized Gabriella's attempts to protest, waving a pontificating finger. "And you told

me

about the dream because you wanted somebody to say as much."

"But Dora, I..."

"Look at you―you're one of the most attractive women I know and you sit in, night after night in sweats and a baggy sweater, watching

Bridget Jones

and eating ice-cream―that Cookies 'n' Cream was delicious by the way, I'm not saying it wasn't―when you should be out meeting guys. Come on, Gab, you're gorgeous. Trim and smooth and long-legged...Christ, if I was a guy I'd do you in a heartbeat." That one caused Gabrielle to grin and blush. "How long's it been?" Pandora persisted. "Three months? Come on, is Simon really worth that much mourning?"

"Well it's... he's... I'd been with him over a year." Gabrielle sensed the lack of conviction in her own reaction. Her resistance was giving way much as it had done in the dream.

"And you want to tell me exactly what was so great?" Pandora was pursuing relentlessly now, her tone good-humored yet quietly scathing. "All those wonderful romantic gestures he never quite got around to making? The football games he shared with you? His scintillating wit?' This time Gabrielle laughed aloud. She couldn't help herself. 'Oh yes, and remind me what the sex was like."

Gabrielle gave a rueful grimace. "Okay, okay, I know I told you. It wasn't great. Not that I've got much to compare it with."

"That's what comes of being a good girl and going to church all these years," Pandora chided.

"Unfair!" Gabrielle's protest was stronger this time. "You know my faith's important to me. And

St Ambrose

is very progressive. It's not like they sent me on those summer camps where we all sit around with hot boys and talk about our chastity. I've been unlucky with the guys I've met, that's all."

"Then it's time to set that right. When your freaky nightmares promise better sex than you've had in real life, action needs to be taken."

The truth of Pandora's words weighed on Gabrielle, but it wasn't as easy as her friend made out. Her relationship with Simon hadn't been incendiary, that was for sure, but she had felt comfortable in it. She'd tried to make it work. So his assertion three months prior that "the chemistry isn't there for me", after all his hang-ups and guilt over sex

―

that had been crushing. Maybe Pandora was right. Maybe that was what you got for dating a guy from church.

"I simply don't know if I'm ready to go looking for another relationship yet," she moaned.

"Hello? Did I even mention the R-word? I'm talking about short-term, high-intensity fun-for-fun's-sake."

Gabrielle stared at her fellow-teacher helplessly. It was easy for

her

to speak, Miss Fox (what fun the male students had with

that

surname), perched there on Gabrielle's soft furnishings like a cute, buxom pixie, a satin sheen to her dark hair. Out every Saturday night, a whirlwind of flirtation and tease and wit. Sex on toast, though admittedly choosy about who she let spread her. Gabrielle disapproved of her some and envied her more. "Look," she said, a touch despairingly, "I'm no good at finding that sort of fun."

"That's why you've got me," Pandora chirped, her eyes sparkling among the T-lights of the English teacher's bed-sitting-room. "It's time for you to be reintroduced to society, my girl, and I know just the event."

"You do?" Gabrielle was wary of Pandora's zealous tone. Her friend had clearly been waiting to spring this all evening.

"Oh God yes. I've told you about my cousin Stella? The one who married Mackenzie Hartland the venture capitalist and moved from San Fran to Santa Barbara? Well their annual Halloween party is coming up. And guess who's been invited a second year running.

And,

guess who's been granted a second ticket for her hot friend who's in need of a fabulous night out."

Gabrielle stared for a moment and knocked back a particularly large gulp of wine. "Select," Pandora confided, like the room might be bugged. "Lavish." She curled her tongue around the word with relish and followed up with a gleeful alliteration for her English-graduate friend. "And lascivious."

"Yeah," a concerned Gabrielle said, her heart-rate stepping up. "A swingers party, the way you told it last year."

"Not officially." Pandora grinned. "But it has acquired quite a reputation. I went as a cute little vampire and before the night was out, Van Helsing impaled me in the..."

"Thank you, Dora, you've told me that story!" Gabrielle quelled the confession, but laughed in her outrage all the same. "You seriously don't expect me to go."

"I totally expect it, and I'm going to slap you around your pretty head if you don't. Do you know how exclusive these tickets are, how much persuading I had to do to get you in? You need to go out and live some. God and the church aren't going to be pissed if you have one night's fun."

"It's not that," Gabrielle protested. Part of her wanted to be convinced. "It's―well―I'm not exactly brimming with self-confidence right now. After the Simon thing."

"Unreal," Pandora said, shaking her head. "You're a fucking goddess, Gabby, with a major self-image problem, that's all. We've got three weeks till Halloween. You, girl, are my project." She gazed over Gabrielle appraisingly. The riveting blue of those unaccountably uncertain eyes, not quite obscured by her tousled, dirty-blonde hair. The limber, pilates-toned body, not quite concealed by her sloppy casual-wear. So pretty, yet so vulnerable right now, so unconvinced of her own sex-appeal.

"Oh my God, yes." Inspiration flashed so strikingly across Pandora's face, that Gabrielle leaned in to listen. "Your dream! It's so perfect." She met her friend's bemused stare squarely. "An angel―a sexy-ass angel surrounded by the Creatures of the Night. You will

rock

the joint."

Gabrielle struggled for speech. She was flattered and felt a rush of affection for her clearly deranged friend. She could even sense crazy, scary, guilty excitement bubbling up in her stomach. But this was all total madness. "I - I can't - I wouldn't even know how to start with a costume."

"Gabby, I'm an Art and Design teacher," Pandora spelt out patiently. "And there are places called shops." She took Gabrielle by the hands and beamed at her. "You

shall

go to the ball. And once you get there, balling is optional."

"Pandora..." Gabrielle blushed to her roots and glared back in mock-fury.

"Honestly." Pandora's eyes rolled white. "You regale me with stories of foot-long demon-cock, and then you get all coy about a sexy party. What

am

I going to do with you?"

~~~~~

What indeed? Getting Gabrielle to the party would not be the problem; their girly tête-a-tête had clearly got the blonde hooked. Bypassing the usual Gabby-reaction once they'd arrived,

that

was the challenge; making sure she didn't revert to her default polite-but-reserved routine once interested males came sniffing.

Five years together on the staff of San Francisco's Willowfield High, five years' worth of weekends on the town had established the pattern all too well, Pandora thought wryly. Gabrielle's faltering confidence always masqueraded as stand-offishness. What a waste of that pretty body and that sexy imagination, the one that rose to the surface once a few drinks had gone south on girls' nights in. And, it transpired, in her nocturnal imaginings too, when that clearly freaky subconscious got a chance to take over. God, Gabby needed unharnessing from her inhibitions. Then maybe she could experience one truly hot night. Maybe she'd acquire a taste for them.

Pandora probably would have refrained from what she did, had it not been for that one tequila-soaked evening. She stumbled into her apartment at the end of it, the idea burning wicked in her mind. It was an outrageous liberty to take with hers and Gabrielle's friendship, she knew, but in her inebriate state it seemed too inspired a notion to ignore. She picked up the phone and made two calls.

The first was to her cousin Stella, who on that Friday night was as alcoholically merry as Pandora. "He'd fit in perfectly at the party―suave, successful and hot as hell," Pandora insisted. "He's outgoing, daring―you'd love him, although hands off. I'm kind of trying to set him up with someone else."

Stella's tipsiness certainly played a role in her agreeing to provide another ticket. Pandora signed off the conversation with a thrill of success and made her second call.

She and Lucius Dammrich had been friends since childhood, the Foxes and the Dammrichs living as close neighbors. Lucius had grown up and done well in real estate and with women. A charming, devil-may-care hunk of masculinity, that was her guy-pal. Pandora figured she'd managed to stay such good friends with him because she firmly refused to go there. She'd chide him laughingly over his indiscretions and tell him frequently to stop being such a damned dog.

The morning after her call, no doubt, she'd have hung-over reservations about her actions and their possible consequences, but that night he struck her as Gabrielle's Mr Right-now. Precisely what the girl needed. Besides, he was clever and well-read. He would get her. Who knew? Gabby might be the one to reform him...

Ha! Get real, girl. That's not going to happen.

But at least he could work some Halloween magic and give the sexually reticent blonde a holiday to remember. He answered his cellphone and after the de rigeur drunken banter―some months had passed since last they spoke―Pandora cheerfully moved to engage him in her plot.

"You'll

love

this party, I know you. It'll be swarming with hot women―but look, there's one I want you to pay special attention to. No, you'll like her.

Really

like her. And she's a challenge. I know you love that. You want me to email a photo? I'll do it right now. Look, Lucius, you owe me! We had a weekend lined up, and you swanned off to San Diego to hook up with some little fuck-buddy of yours, remember? This will

not

be a chore, trust me. But I want you to be nice to her. And don't tell her we had this conversation. Costume? Well yeah, I did have something in mind for you. I thought if I gave you a theme, you could use your imagination and run with it. Let me explain..."

* * * *

Over three weeks Gabrielle allowed herself to be swept along by Pandora's boundless enthusiasm. It was easy to go with that flow once she got past her initial reservations, in fact it was a source of stomach-tightening excitement. Letting herself be costumed for a party of dubious reputation felt deliciously transgressive, to the extent that it caused her qualms during her regular act of Sunday worship. She tried to brush off her doubts. It was nothing more, she told herself firmly, than an anthropological excursion involving a bit of dress-up. And yet every suggested piece of couture seemed to shock her more than the one before.

"I could never wear that!" her refrain went, yet most every time she knew she wanted to. Wanted the nerve to carry off something that outrageous in public. And she never shied from trying it on―no silky, lacy, clingy excuse for an outfit remained unmodeled. Pandora stood beside her at the full-length mirror each time, admiring how the scanty scraps barely succeeded in covering her svelte, gracefully curved body. Her well-intentioned friend, she was perfectly aware, had more in mind than a voyeuristic stroll amongst Santa Barbara's wealthy at play. She was being kitted out, she knew, in preparation for a raunchy escapade all her own.

This was never more apparent, the experience never more innately erotic, than the day Pandora took her for a final fitting at Victoria's Secret. There were three of them in the changing area, Pandora sitting in as Gabrielle hesitantly stripped for the assistant and had her bust-line and hips measured for the designated costume.