Magick or madness? Lust or logic? None of that mattered at that precise moment. Freya’s agile hands, slick with cunt juices, plunged into her oozing pussy, furiously pounding into her sodden hole as the limousine, swerving at a perilous speed, wove in and out of traffic, a foreboding, black Cadillac pursuing, its windows tinted to opacity. The misty, gray rain adhered to the windows of the woman’s limo, a surrogate mirror, and a huge, distant flame, the flaring of some factory ahead, noxious gasses being burnt off, was her candle.
A multitude of worlds ago, unable to find her way back home, Freya had surrendered to the madness of her curse, no longer worried about her sanity. Instead, she embraced her plight. If she were in the throes of lunacy, she may as well enjoy it; if it were the accursed decree of her parents’ demonic gods, then she was powerless to do naught but roll with the thunder in her psyche. But common threads, telltale signs of something more sinister, diabolical, wove themselves into a tapestry of the surreal. Although the worlds changed, endless shadows, echoes, and reverberations of the possible, Freya remained stoic, her mind and appearance a constant.
He was also a constant—that sinister, gaunt man with the knowing, villainous smile, the lemon-yellow eyes of a demonic serpent, and, somehow, imbued with all the minutia of her curse, worlds, and essence. He’d been hot on her heels since the gallery, so many twisted worlds ago, and he was as pervasive as the now-annoying lemon color that seemed to thematically permeate each world Freya plunged into. No matter how fast the driver went, the ominous, black car still followed, the headlights beams of lemony ire, searing into the limousine’s back bumper.
The gallery show, dozens of shadows past, was, perhaps, her second encounter with him. As Freya, adorned in a gossamer, shimmering dress of see-through, loosely woven frills, viewed “her” paintings, she was accosted by fans, art lovers, and the media. The nightmarish canvases she painted were rooted in her multiple existences, scenes from multiple worlds, parallel mirrors a recurring theme in the art. Mirrors had been artistically hung between the paintings, candles burning in the midst. Those painted images, material reminders of her curse, hung all about, tearing away the last vestiges of her sanity; in that world, her journeys through alternate realities were her art. Then, he appeared, the gallery owner, JD.
His lemon-colored, thin tie caught her attention. He was speaking with some local celebrities, a slutty blond, her eyes as red as Freya’s hair, hanging on his arm. As if psychic, he turned abruptly and met her gaze, his head tilting slightly forward, that malicious sneer crossing his lips. All he did was wink, turning his attention back to his guests. Lunacy tugged at the fraying threads of her sanity; somehow, she felt, knew, that this man, whoever he truly was, was connected to her curse. Unlike the regular male gaze, all hotness and sexual fire boring into her body, his sent chills of maddened despair through her core, draining her of will, autonomy, and courage.
JD, formally referred to as John Dee, remained in her peripherals all through the showing. His ominous stares, predatory demeanor, and oppressive aura pummeled against Freya’s body, mind, and soul until she, in a desperate, terrified act, surrendered to her plight, and knelt, on all fours, between two mirrors that the gallery had hung to decorate according to the theme of her art, and masturbated, furiously, as the shocked onlookers discussed her performance art. To them, she was a sexually-charged genius, teetering recklessly on the edge of the cliffs of madness. To her, as she moaned, masturbated, and writhed between the mirrors, she was seeking escape from her demonic nemesis. She, somehow, instinctively knew that John Dee was the demonic entity Choronzon, the supernatural bestower of her curse.
With her hands plunging between her shaking legs, feelings of lust, desire, and passion welling up from within her, joining with the cosmos, Freya blurred out the world of artistry and affluence, emerging, as the throes of her earth-shattering orgasm washed over her, into a parallel reality where she was an office worker. That mundane, trivial existence gave way to another world, then another, still others following. In every existence, he was there, always menacing, always watching, intently.
John Dee’s demonic presence manifested itself in every world Freya orgasmed her way into. At first, he was just a menacing figure in the backdrop, but his pervasive existence evolved into uncomfortable, threatening-seeming encounters. While always polite, never once doing anything untoward, let alone malicious, there was a feeling about him, something in his hellish aura, that sent her into panic mode. She began avoiding him whenever she spied his malevolence, then fleeing. Every step she took toward safety resulted in JD advancing two paces. Soon, Freya desperately tried to escape, her entire life a blur of candlelit cums and running from Mr. Dee.
In this world, where Freya enjoyed celebrity status and more money than she could count, the demonic John Dee was unrelenting. His malevolence hounded her at every corner, in every crowd, and he was always chasing her. Freya’s frenetic, terror-accelerated masturbation in the back of her limousine would hopefully take her someplace where he’d never find her.
At ramming speed, the imposing Cadillac broke free of the chaotic traffic, slamming other vehicles to the berm, and set itself on a collision course, speeding toward the back of Freya’s limo. She fingered herself like a woman possessed, lust, fear, and insanity giving her fingers speed and lusty accuracy. Feeling the entire universe well up inside her, her essence drifting through the ether, the fiery-haired vixen, thrust her fingers inside her dripping cunt hard and fast, more fingers assaulting her clit. Her building orgasm consumed her just as the vehicles collided, her essence spinning through the sensual energy of the universe as the limo mimicked her soul, spinning off into oblivion.
This world, if one were to apply cognitive liberalism to the term, was unlike any of the others. As Freya plummeted into and out of endless, possible worlds, they all represented a believable reality. This one, however, defied logic, sanity, and the fabric of the universe, itself. There was no world, neither sun shining down nor a starlight sky. Although there was source-less light, its ambiance tinted lemon yellow, the entire universe seemed to have congealed down to a glass-like, wavy plane of blackness, shiny, warm, and damp. Countless mirrors, of all shapes, sizes, contours, and ages, formed a long, narrow pathway— countless rows of them beyond, extending through the infinite, planar void. Candles mounted in hovering sconces or ornate, ancient candelabras sat in the center of the mirrored pathway.
Mentally shrugging, convinced that she’d finally lost all sense of realness, Freya barely noted that she was nude, once more. Her infinite lust, that horny, lusty feeling that permeated her soul, was vibrating at a higher, more powerful octave. The young woman’s juices dripped from her loins, and her entire body tingled with erotic need, burning her insides. Resolved to her insane state and fate, Freya squared her shoulders, and boobs bouncing with every sexually-heightened step, meandered down the snaking, curving pathway, each mirror she glanced into showing a different world, her within it, on its surface.
In a vast number of those show worlds, she was institutionalized. In others, she was a famous artist or musician, always something creative. Yet other mirages showed her living peacefully and happily, and it went on, ranks of mirrors appearing behind the ones she strode between, all of them a glimpse of a possible world. She knew, in the darkest crannies of her splintered mind and her fiercely-beating heart, what lay at the end of the long, winding, mirrored pathway, lined with an infinite field of mirrors.
A death march, an endless winding hike toward fate, oblivion the only destination—Freya refused to cry, no longer concerned with her sanity or whether it was the accursed decree of her parents’ demonic, craven idols. Overwrought beyond her breaking point, she almost welcomed the conclusion, only hoping that her end would be quick and painless. John Dee, whom she knew had to be the physical form of Choronzon, awaited.
As suspected, as she meandered through endless variations of the worlds, her places within them, the mirrored pathway, after what seemed like hours of marching, gave way to a perfect circle, several yards in diameter, lined with towering, full-length mirrors, all of them reflecting that particular non-reality. In the center, large, brass braziers on stepped, stone pillars burned with the yellow fires of insanity’s torture.
Between the flaming, brass bowls, an ornate, gilded throne stood, looking ancient and regal. He sat on the plush, red velvet cushions, his skin gray and mottled. Curving horns jutted from his demonic head, spiraling into themselves, and his lips were a ghastly charcoal color, his eyes like a serpent’s, lemon-yellow instead of whites. His fierce, cruel visage remained, only the guise of humanity had been shed, showing his demonic, true form.
“I’m tired of running, mentally broken, and just want it to end, John, Dee,” Freya boldly stated, her voice sounding aroused and confident. “Destroy me. I’m tired of running and can’t tell what is real.”
“Foolish mortal,” he mused, his sneer showing needle-like fangs, the talons on his muscular fingers clacking on the carved wooden arms of the throne. “Why dost thee forsake my gift, my child?”
“Gift? Madness, having no place, always running, unable to have a normal life is what you call a gift?”
“As I am your patron, in spirit, the Mother Earth your balancing counter, I bestowed my powers unto you. Your endless flight was not away from danger but into it. I shall teach you control, my mortal child.”
His cock, long, thick, and demonically beautiful, instantly sprang to hardness, sending erotic jolts through Freya’s core. It was knurled, curving upward, and it pulsed with the rhythm of creation, life, pain, anguish, ecstasy, and delight, all bliss and rapture concentrated within it. As if compelled through primal, guttural instinct, Freya could only nod, her hands caressing her pert breasts on their own accord. Dropping to her knees, tears finally flowing as she realized that her magick was, indeed, madness, she pointed her shapely ass toward his erection, wiggling her hips in reluctant invitation.
