From Issue 3.3 - February/March 1997

Juliette: Dungeon of the Burning Angels

Part II: The Third Bride

Serial fiction by David Aaron Clark

The whores were exquisite.

Exquisitely boring.

Exquisitely boring corpses, seamless in their theater, two perfectly complimented bodies, one generous and womanly, one lean and boyish, conjuncting in effortless tableau.

The more sinuous of the pair was fitted into the spidery harness sporting the oversized black dildo, which poked from between lean thighs that neatly fitted inside the rolling white pillars of the submissive -- the pillow-breasted courtesan with the chrome ball-gag bit expanding her mouth in constant surprised distress. Her shaven cunt looked like a doughy pastry. Her asshole was distended so far by the black dildo that it looked as though the weapon had created its own orifice, plunged in a random spot in search of the warm cradle of viscera.

The fucked bitch's split haunches were shiny with an orange-tinged opalescent lubricating creme that Agrat Bat Mahlat knew was peppery and astringent enough that the deeper it was rubbed into the tissue, the more the tender flesh inside would burn and contract, making each thrust more invasive and painful. Still, the supine whore endured, her sweat-covered cheek pressed against soft shoulder as she watched her rapist with heavy-lidded, drugged eyes through the black skeletal branches that had fallen from the massive dark forest of her hair.

Agrat absently diddled herself, not even concentrating on ascending to a level of clear pleasure. Her purpose was to float on this middle ground. She was meditating, not masturbating. The passionless play before her was white noise to massage her nervous system, to direct her attention to the more abstract qualities of meat worship.

The senator was due at 2 p.m. The sacrifice would occur within the hour; he was due in Washington tomorrow morning for a vital vote on the latest version of the assault weapons bill, which would lift the ten-year ban on private citizens owning fully working semiautomatic machine guns.

It was a new century, and times were hard; the local police infrastructures were collapsing, and it was a politically popular measure. The notions of the old American West were returning, not just in the cities and the outbacks, but in the decaying spread of the great middle class. A man could no longer be faulted for defending his homestead.

It was a good time for Agrat and her sisters. The three of them were joined by their mutual marriages to one lord; bound more intimately and ecstatically than any weak, juiceless nun of Jesus. Besides she, there was Lilith and Naamah. Both bringers of epilepsy to children, as well as angels of prostitution.

Naamah's charms were so great she could seduce not only men but higher spirits and demons; it was rumored that she had survived intercourse with a chief angel prince of the altitudes, who had manifested itself as a ruddy-faced child swathed in satin, its expression sly with beatism under a crown of red gilly flowers.

Lilith was another matter. Humans were her great love, after, of course, lord Sammael, who she had first fucked beneath the very throne of Jehovah, their writhing limbs shaking the massive legs and sending disturbances through the very ether of heaven's fabric, causing the strings on celestial harps to vibrate at a speed that laid open the silver fingers of lower angels among the constantly rumbling choirs, the weeping drops falling to the earth to water Robert Johnson's grave.

But since her first days on this plane, Lilith had become a drunk, addicted to the malty taste of the uniquely warm semen produced by human males; a tender contrast to the cold jism of the Prince of Light or the burning spill of lesser dominions. She liked it best mixed with a man's blood.

But it was her damnation that she could never truly capture a human's heart. She could lead him to ecstasy, to ruin and destruction, to murder and addiction and abduction and suicide, but in the last moments a butterfly always escaped from his mouth, as with his dying breath he heard her voice as a screeching owl and saw her for the witch she was, and fled into the arms of Uriel or one of the other archangels of penance. Of the three whore-brides, she brought her husband no souls, only the modest gruel of suffering.

Not like me, Agrat vainly praised herself, three fingers now working in her pulsing cunt as she broke her meditation to reward herself with a sharper pleasure. The two whores continued churning away. The one getting fucked had soiled herself, and the odor added the faintest tang to the hallucinogen-laden incense that curled up pale violet from the censers set at five corners of the room.

Agrat indeed served her master with style and grace. A cool manipulatrix, her brilliant plots were executed on scales that resulted in national, and what would eventually be global, implications. Her sex was entirely devoted to bringing about the endtimes, and Sammael smiled upon her efforts, rewarding her with great earthly power.

She was mistress to governors, mob bosses, the chairmen of entertainment conglomerates, television pastors.

And Senator Ricky-Joe Jensen, a former country and western singer who had been eating her shit out of a silver bowl while she shoved her high heel up his ass ever since the celebrated night of his first performance at the Grand Ole Opry. He was a good old boy, and actually thought his constituency deserved the right to bear and fire semiautomatic weapons in defense of their homes. And if they pushed the perimeter a little past the porch, well...somebody needed to teach those thievin', disease-bearin' drug addicts a lesson.

Today, Agrat thought she might give Ricky-Joe a Jack Daniels enema, plow his ass for a little while, and then shoot him up with a little methamphetamine right before setting him loose on these two whores. He'd wear himself out before he came, and she could whisper into his ear the entire time, laying further seeds for the chaos machine to grind forward.

And at the end, when she held his right hand tightly with her own as he cut the two bitches' throats while the video cameras in the walls and ceiling pierced murderers and victims alike in their crossfire, she would sneak a hand between her legs, and finally allow herself to come.

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Last updated: 9 March 1997