|
|
|
|
Warning: Anointed of God is a hard core xxx adults only sex slave novel dealing with mature themes. It features drug use, torture, sexual brutality, anal sex, rape, prostitution and sex slavery. The language is often extremely crude and vulgar, as too are many of the attitudes of the characters. The novel is set in a world which is severely homophobic and in which many people have attitudes which are extremely disrespectful of women.Definitely for adults only. No readers under the age of eighteen, thanks. NotForKids!
|
|
|
|
By clicking here you certify that you are over the age of eighteen. |
and view MAP! By clicking here you certify that you are over the age of eighteen. |
By clicking here you certify that you are over the age of eighteen. |
|
|
|
CHAPTER ONE Sue, known to most people as Lightfootsy, was not particularly good at what she did. This was not surprising. She was slightly mentally defective, though you wouldn't know it from looking at her. To look at, she was an attractive sheila with glossy black hair, good child-bearing hips and big boobies, really bouncy udders (boing boing!) that would be fun if you ended up getting between the sheets and doing the mattress accordion with her. Lightfootsy, despite her good looks, was a slow learner, had difficulty staying on task, and did not find it easy to learn new things. She was not exactly unemployable. She certainly had a good understanding of the commercial possibilities of her personal flower vase. Additionally, her two frontmost teeth, top and bottom, had been removed to produce a big-gapped smile which was designed to send a clear message to males of the species: Hey, big boy, here's a mouth that really knows the meaning of the world welcome. But, though Lightfootsy was prepared to sell her body, and sometimes did, in the city of Ataturk, which had any number of dirty-minded avaricious sluts competing for the discretionary dime, being Miss Oral Hotel or Miss Pork Hole did not pay off as well as you might think it would. The hospitality industry, as it was locally called, was intensely competitive. So Lightfootsy had ended up becoming a night porter. This was a job you had to do not by night but in the clear light of day, because it was all too easy to make mistakes if you were dealing with "the product" in the gloom of the night. In Stature's, a city which had no sewer system, a night porter was someone who worked in the night soil removal business, showing up to take away the contents of the household's central honeypot, into which commodes would be emptied after they had been used. You moved your bowels? Well, now you've got to pay someone to take the product away. Unless you want to hike all the way to the river and dump your dump yourself. Technically, it was illegal to treat the streets of the city as a sewer, though quite a few people did. People aside, the city was also afflicted by coiled cow pats sourced from cows (all of which were sacred to the religion known as Indira), the droppings of dogs, the dung of horses and the manure of the occasional elephant and camel. Oh, yes, and the occasional elephant. Don't forget the elephants. However, while a few delinquents did use the city streets as a discarding zone for human wastes, most of the citizens of Stature's were goodish, if not actually good, and they paid for night porters to uplift their household product and dispose of it in a sanitary manner by dumping it into Vomulus or Orlid, the twin rivers which lay immediately to the east and west of Ilkliglup, the elevated area on which the city of Stature's was built. That was Lightfootsy's routine work, then: taking unpleasant wet stuff from place A to place B. Her sideline was helping with the work of killing people. Dealing with wet stuff and helping out with wetwork are both simple tasks that can be done by those who labor through life under severe limitations. As a rule, those who become professional killers are by no means the brightest and the best. They do what they do because they can. It lies within their sphere of competence. Killings R Us can make good use of you if your talents are as limited as the ability to walk up behind someone on a crowded street and, while they're not looking, bash them over the head with a bit of rock. Even if you're as dumb as gerbil's poke hole, the murder machine has a niche for you. Having found an ecological niche in the environment of extermination, Lightfootsy was, unfortunately, making a hash of things. Following Yard should have been even within Lightfootsy's limited abilities, but she messed it up. She drew attention to herself by coming right up close, close enough to slip a piece of cold steel between his ribs, then falling back again. By this odd behavior, she drew attention to herself, and people figured out that she, Miss Big Boobies, and he, the most famous wrestler in Stature's, were an item. At first, Yard was oblivious to the fact that he was being followed. He took a relaxed attitude to life and did not waste his time getting stressed or paranoid. For Pelican Ostragoth Yard, life was a picnic, a long day out at the funpark. In proof of the picnic, he had an actual picnic sack with him, the essentials for the snack-snooze afternoon he was planning for the Garden. Gym in the morning, entertainment in the middle of the day, a private picnic in the afternoon - an ideal day in what was, all things considered, an ideal life. Got me my pocket money, got me my beer buddies, got me my share of pretty spread-mes, what more do I need? Yard, the stalkee, had, at first, no inkling that he was being stalked. But then he started to see grinning males of the species making the thumb-in-fist gesture which, locally, meant "Like your floozie, boy. Way to go!" From the repeated use of that gesture by people who could see what was behind him, Yard figured out that a girl fan had tagged along behind him. He chose not to encourage her by turning around to see who she was. With three or four girlfriends on his hands (if you laid a babe once, was she really your girlfriend, or just a one-time lucky hit?) Yard had no wish whatsoever for any entanglements with his female fan base. If Miss Following Floozie was still dogging his footsteps when he made it to Sunvoyage Square, then he would introduce her to brother Bloke, who would necessarily be there for the proceedings. Bloke was a ladies' man through and through, never too busy to add one more bedroom canyon to his workload. Coming up ahead were the two monstrously huge winged rabbits, each lighthouse tall, which landmarked Unch Hauzen, the entrance to Sunvoyage Square. These ancient monuments were grim souvenirs from the age, centuries ago, when Kendaman culture had been dominated by Mayazclapa, a cult of human sacrifice. How things had changed! Each rabbit was mounted on a plinth, with a ziggurat of steps leading up to the foot of the thing. Both rabbits were standing on their hind legs, each clutching something in its paws. The rabbit on the left was holding a flower. It was a female rabbit and went by the name of Beatrice. The rabbit on the right was male, and was known as Glong Mungus. Originally it had held a carrot in its paws, though now only the stump of that symbolic object remained. Standing slap bang in the middle of Unch Hauzen, broadside on to the incoming throng, was an elephant. A humpty up, not a humpty down. Elephants come in two types, one with a back that dips down and the other with a back which is convex. This Nellie Boots was of the convex type, a humpty up. Whitewashed on the elephant's flank was a name: Andy Warhol. In the kingdom of Kendama, Andy Warhol was the God of Gay Sex. In Kendama, it was not, technically, illegal to be a male homosexual. But, that granted, the physical expression of such a proclivity was forbidden. On pain of death. Unless - this was the one loophole that the Constitution provided - having man-man sex was an integral part of your religion. If you were one of Andy Warhold's devotees, a Warholite, then you would have such a religious obligation. For you, the rigors of the dark and constricted channel known to coreligionists as the narrow road to the deep north would be the True Path, the royal road to ecstasy, nirvana and enlightenment. The Framers of the Constitution had, in all probability, imagined that the number of men who were under a religious obligation to hump other men would be vanishingly small, but, in the kingdom of Kendama, a full ten percent of all males fourteen and over were registered as Warholites. The three-way choice being death, chastity or religious conviction, pretty much every gay who acknowledged his own nature had chosen the path of piety, with one consequence being that, in Kendama, ostentatious religiosity was always and inevitably associated with male homosexuality. In addition to being the name of a God, Andy Warhol was also the name of Ataturk's leading male brothel. In the days of the former king, Yard's paternal grandfather, King Engroshab, the king himself had been, notoriously, a regular client, his three-way fancy being for older men, very young boys (it would be a criminal offense for me to tell you precisely how young) and corpses. In the days of King David, however, the monarchy was aggressively heterosexual, which was why King David had arranged for the phallus of his personal God, Rafrica, to be installed in the shrine known as Glastonbury, so its potentiating powers could be used to optimize the commitment of Kendama's females to the phallocentric hierarchy. Seeing the elephant with its whitewashed Andy Warhol sign triggered a chain of associations in Yard's mind, these including both is straitlaced hetero father and his seriously perverted gay paternal grandfather. Thus distracted, he quite forgot that he was being followed. Oblivious to footdogging danger, he approached Unch Hauzen and its flanking rabbits, Beatrice and Glong Mungus. The Beatrice Steps were, as always, crowded with flower sellers. The flowers they hawked were always big, huge, profligate with perfume and color. Golden sunflowers, swooning lilies, gaudy emerald galdazinias and rainbow tulips the size of a six-month baby. When it came to the floral world, Kendaman culture had no use whatsoever for the tiny and the delicate. Its taste in ikebana was as raucous as its taste in booze binges and backroom orgies. Sitting up there on the Beatrice Steps amidst the imperious flowers was Billy Bison, gayest of the gay boys, as sexually aberrant as a three-legged drainpipe. If you were to strip him naked for a body search, you would find his male homosexuality betrayed by the three sacred tokens of the Warholites. One was his special sacred underwear, a turquoise jockstrap. (In Kendama, turquoise was a color always and inevitably associated with male homosexuality.) Another giveaway sign of gay homosexuality was his toenails, painted a bright red. And the third? The third was his so-called angel's tooth, the miniature phallus that he wore around his neck on a silver chain. As Billy sat there, he was eating, shamelessly, a Lapastridenta sugar cone, choicest of the confectioneries to be found in the city of Stature's. In so indulging, he was putting his poofqueer nature on display, for, in Kendaman culture, sweet things were only for women, children and gays. Real men, by contrast, favored the sour, the spicy and the salty. Billy was up there on the lookout for the Adored One, the oiled wrestler who was the focus on his nightly masturbatory fantasies. And there he was, with Miss Stinks-of-Fish tagging along behind him, a big-boobed egg bearer walking a respectful one pace behind, as a woman should, not like these shameless sluts you see on the streets in this degenerate age, strutting along side by side with their boys, as if imagining that they themselves were human beings, rather than what they really are, which is breeding meat, wombs on forked legs. In Billy's nightly fantasies, Pelican Yard was a male prostitute in Andy Warhol, and a slave prostitute at that, a rent boy who had no option but to let Billy shaft him right up the poop pipe. But now Miss Cunt and Boobies was muscling in on Billy's territory. Well, bitch girl, I think you and me need to have a bit of a face-to-face. Not having you snatching my man, he's mine. Yeah, cuntslave, a little chat, that's what we're going to have. Somewhere private, I think. Enjoy your face while you've got it, bitch. Might wake up tomorrow to find that what you remember is gone. Billy was most sincerely in love with Yard, more fiercely in love than he had ever been before in his entire life. He believed, ardently, that love conquers all. If he loved Yard hard enough, then, eventually, Yard would be his. And it would be poop hole party time. Though Billy came across as soft, in bed he was very much the aggressor, always demanding the dominant role, always the shafter, never the shaftee. Being butt fucked, well, Billy had let a guy do that to him once, and it had hurt like hell. Never again! Butt fucking other guys, however, gee, wow, that was a blast. Did Billy have his Ichorite Assassin's Knife with him? Yep. It was there in the boot sheath, where it should be. One quick stab, Miss Likes-To-Fuck-Dogs, and you're done for. You're dead meat. With that in mind, Billy started down the Beatrice Steps, making for Yard and the fishy sauce pot which was following him. But Billy's heroic mission to rescue Yard from the enemy eggbearer came to a crashing halt almost immediately. Descending the Beatrice steps in an impetuous rush, he lost his footing and fell forward. He smashed right into a tray of extremely expensive norgalookas, brilliant blue and gold flowers which filled his world with the smell of honey as his bodyweight ruptured them. The flowers that Billy had just gone and destroyed were the property Nostradama Haunch, who was not known as Big Mama Brawler for nothing, and an altercation ensued. Billy, being by far the lighter of the pair, was soon face down with Big Mama on top of him, her harpy hands physically tearing his hair out by the roots, causing him to scream piteously. Meantime, on the heights of the Glong Mungus steps, Traven, chief assassin in the drama of the wetworking of Pelican Yard, was already on his feet, heading downwards. Traven was vaguely aware that someone was screaming on the Beatrice steps, some hysterical flower-selling female, no doubt, but that was not what had motivated him to stand and head downhill. Rather, he was aiming to intercept Lightfoot Sue as soon as possible. Lightfootsy's mission had been dead simple, too simple for anyone to screw it up. Or so Traven had thought. Just tag along behind Yard and make sure that he, as expected, goes from his morning gym session to the execution which is going to provide the day's entertainment. But Lightfootsy, the dumb bitch, had obviously fucked up bigtime, the evidence for this being the conga line of little boys which had fallen in behind her. In that press of people, maintaining a conga line took quite some doing, but the kids were evidently dedicated to the cause. It was glaringly clear that Lightfootsy had, somehow, betrayed the fact that she was following Yard, though Yard, who was bulling his way through the increasingly tight crowd, had a big shit-eating grin plastered right across his relaxed festival face, which suggested that he had no idea that he was quarry, prey, rape meat waiting to be slaughtered. Despite the urgency of the moment, Traven descended slowly. It would be unwise to descend the Glong Mungus steps in a hurry because, as always, they were being used for outdoor cookery. Various women were cooking rotipan, the onion bread that was one of the staples of the Kendaman poor, over burning cow pats. This is one of the really great things about cow dung: you can set fire to it, and, once it's burning, you can use it to cook. (For a full rundown of the glories of cow pats, refer to Bovinataurus, sacred book of the Indirans.) The smoke in the air had the effect of amplifying the heat of the sun, which was making the black basalt of the Glong Mungus steps intolerably hot. Picking his way down through the womenfolk, Traven had a brilliant idea. Give Lightfootsy a knife. Tell her to shove it into Yard's back. She was dumb enough to do that. Yard would be dead, and the mob, enraged by the assassination of a prince of the blood, would tear Lightfootsy limb to limb. Which would be a good thing because she, evidently, was a security breach just waiting to happen. |
|
By clicking here you certify that you are over the age of eighteen. |
By clicking here you certify that you are over the age of eighteen. |
By clicking here you certify that you are over the age of eighteen. |
|
The text on this page is part of the fantasy novel Anointed of God by Hugh Cook, author of the ten volume fantasy series CHRONICLES OF AN AGE OF DARKNESS. Hugh is also posting, bit by bit, as it is written, the full text of a new SF novel, Wraith Ships.
TO FIND THE TEXT OF WRAITH SHIPS ONLINE, SEARCH FOR THIS TERM: zelklodzi9. |
|
Note: most of Hugh Cook's books can be purchased online from Amazon.com.
|
|
The sexual practices depicted in this book are intended for entertainment, not emulation. Personally performing the practices depicted in this book could have untoward consequences for your health, with side-effects quite possibly including death. The target audience is curious teens on the cusp of adulthood, but there is no harm in grown adults visiting this site. Clicking round the site I found the sad story of the two virtuous Christians who waited until they got married so they would be "right with God." "We waited for marriage... but it wasn't worth the wait." In the fantasy world depicted in ANOINTED OF GOD, most people are not big on impulse control, and delayed gratification is generally on nobody's agenda. But, once again, note that they are here to entertain you, not to serve as role models. |