Date: Thu, 11 Sep 2008 18:06:38 -0700
From: The Oaken Satyr <the.satyr@gmail.com>
Subject: Stag God Chronicles - The Archon, Chapter Four

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Hey, everyone.

This continues a new series, a continuation of the Stag God Chronicles
in the form of a new trilogy I'm calling "Light in the Forest." This
first story in the trilogy is called "The Archon."

I'd also like to invite everyone interested in joining our chat list
about the Stag God Chronicles at:

http://groups.yahoo.com/group/stag-god-cycle/

Also, if you'd like, feel free to IM me on Yahoo!, under
"the_oaken_satyr".

As usual, involves adult situations, with all that entails. You've
been warned.

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This story is (c) The Oaken Satyr, 2008

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Chapter Four: Interrogation
The smell of clean water and sweet air filled his nostrils. Mathis
wasn't sure where he was, or how he got there, and the light was
terribly bright. Around him, he could hear a mournful, wordless song,
like the lament of a woman's voice filled with adoration and worship.

Movement near him caught his attention. Mathis glanced to his left and
saw the figure standing there. He had clearly been watching him, and
the light shone from behind the tall being. Mathis raised a hand to
his eyes, shading them slightly, and gasped when he did so.

The light that shone behind the robed man was not simply ambient
light. It was a scintillating, burning pair of wings, afire with the
holy white light of the midday sun. The air rippled around the man,
distorted by the heat the wings unleashed in the world around him. His
hair, likewise, was a coruscating, streaming field of white fire,
which flowed in an unfelt wind.

The man's eyes, on the other hand, were pure darkness, cast into
shadow by the light around them. Under his robe, his shoulders were
quite broad and well-muscled, his belly firm and his hips cut a fine
"V" pattern down to an ample groin that bulged obscenely, covered only
by the loose, flowing robe of white purity that clothed him.

He looked only vaguely like the stylized statuary of the hiraldir so
common in the Church sanctuaries, but Mathis had no doubt, for even a
moment, that this was one of the great angels of the Lord of Light.
Immediately, his knees buckled, and he bowed low.

You are right to bow.

The voice was not a voice. It was not a sound, nor even truly thought
that entered his mind, as such. Instead, it was a rush of emotion and...
knowledge, really. It was less communication and more revelation, like
he was remembering something he'd always known, rather than being told
something new.

We are Ilichael. We are the Fury of the Lord of Light.

Again, the experience of discovering something he'd always known,
rather than finding new information. Even as he "heard" these words,
the knowledge of who and what Ilichael was seared itself into Mathis'
soul. His name literally meant "Fury of the Lord." He was the entity
of purest, white-hot rage that made up the Lord of Light's capacity
for anger, and he was sent into the world only at the behest of the
Lord of Light, or by powerful magics wielded by the Great God's Holy
Illuminate. He could only come to bring great retribution to the
enemies of the Light.

There is something in the center of your being. You have been touched
by profane Powers.

Mathis felt tears burn down his face, as though his shame had turned
them to acid. He sensed, rather than heard, Ilichael approach, drawing
nearer. How could he be here, in the presence of one of the foremost
servants of the Lord of Light, with the shame of what he'd done — what
he'd taken part in — so fresh in him? He wept, from his place on the
floor, wanting nothing so much as to throw his face to the ground and
beg for forgiveness he did not deserve.

A hand like marble cupped his chin, and pulled him upward to gaze on
the shining visage of the angel Ilichael.

Do not misunderstand. I do not chastise you. You have proven yourself,
in the marks that mar your flesh, from the soulfires.

With his other hand, the angel touched himself on the breast. Like
water rippling away from something dropped into it, his robe split and
flowed open, slitting vertically to reveal the chiseled muscle of his
chest, his belly of steel-like ridges and finally his cock: long and
plump, hanging there unmarred by the veins or strange bulges that
might detail a mortal member. Mathis looked back up at Ilichael's face
as his groin tightened.

It is simply that you have taken other Powers into yourself with your
initiation into their profane cult. Such powers choose their own
channels to grant them access to your soul, and all other means of
spiritual empowerment are sealed away.

The angel's hand stopped cupping his chin, and stroked the side of his
face, a gentle motion that ended with the strong white fingers of
Ilichael behind his head. Steady pressure pulled Mathis toward the
angel's body, until his head was leaning against the being of light's
hip.

The strong, pale cock pulsed to life, and lay thick and hot alongside
Mathis' cheek. Mathis' cock was harder perhaps than it had ever been,
and his breathing shallow and labored. He glanced up once again, and
Ilichael smiled down at him.

There is no other way. You must take the Light into yourself, but the
channels used by the priests you know are closed to you. We must use
the methods of the heathens you were sent to destroy, in this.

Again, the words of the hiraldir made themselves present in his
understanding, and he knew more than he'd been told. He suddenly
understood that there were many paths of empowerment to the human
soul. The devotees of the Lord of Light used perfection of the body,
discipline and purification of the self as their channel. But the cult
of the Stag-God embraced hedonism and sexual release as theirs...and
he'd been too deeply imprinted with that technique to ever use another
method.

The insistent pull was there again, and the cock beside his face had
surged to full hardness. It wasn't overly long, but its thickness was
impressive. It was widest at its base, a massive pillar of white-
silver marble, curving upward into a cockhead of smooth pale pink
flesh that stood out against the coloration of the angel.

With one more glance upward, Mathis turned his full attention to the
angel's cock, and opened his mouth. He didn't bother to lick or nuzzle
at it, as he might have done among the devotees of the Stag-God. He
simply stretched wide his jaws, and clamped his mouth down over the
angelcock before him, his tongue swirling its hardness as he did so.

Despite his experience, it was large. Too large. He couldn't swallow
it all, both because of its incredible width (even though his jaws
were stretched as wide open as he could manage), and its upward curve,
which mashed the smooth, rounded cockhead against the back of his
throat. He coughed and gagged, spewing hot, slimy saliva over the
angel's member, and redoubled his efforts.

Open wide thy mouth, Mathis. There is much to give.

The angel pulled its member from Mathis' mouth, gripping the base of
its cock with one hand while leaving the other resting behind Mathis'
head, carefully controlling his approach and speed. Mathis glanced
upward for a quick moment as the cockhead left his tongue, dripping a
string of saliva and precum between cock and lips.

Ilichael's expression was strange; he was fervent, adamant in
performing his duty, yet somehow also intrigued and repulsed at the
same time. It was strange to think of such a numinous being as
inexperienced, somehow, and yet surely this was the first time the
Fury of the Lord had ever fucked someone's face.

Surely.

Ilichael forced Mathis down, until he was lying down, and the angel
stood above him. His white robes faded away as though they were made
of mist, blown into tiny spinning threads of fog by an unseen wind,
and the angel's wings of burning white fire arced above them both.
Ilichael stepped so that Mathis' head was between his perfect feet,
and he was looking down the length of Mathis' body.

Prepare thyself.

The angel knelt, his thick cock jutting obscenely from his body,
bouncing once or twice as Ilichael lowered himself. Shortly,
Ilichael's balls, tight against his body, rubbed the tip of Mathis'
nose and then dipped, scraping against his chin. Mathis opened his
mouth and lapped at the smooth white skin — so like satin, covered in
sheer white powder — for just a moment while Ilichael arranged himself.

The angel reached down and grasped Mathis by the back of his head and
pulled his hips away so that the head of his angelcock rubbed against
Mathis' lips. Mathis licked it once, twice and then spoke up:

"I don't know that I can—"

And with that, the angel drove his cock deep into Mathis' mouth. At
this angle, the curve of the holy cock perfectly matched the shape of
Mathis' throat, and Ilichael groaned in ecstasy as his cock completely
lodged itself in the mortal's gullet.

Mathis choked and even tried to cough, but even air couldn't find
escape from the denseness of Ilichael's cock wedged perfectly in his
craw. Tears immediately sprang to his eyes and Mathis thrashed once,
twice and a third time before the angel pulled his cock out. The young
man gasped for breath.

It is necessary, acolyte. You must endure.

Mathis could swear he could almost feel taunting behind the angel's
words; they seemed cruel somehow, but also filled with passion. Mathis
wasn't even given the chance to take another breath before Ilichael
shoved his cock back into his throat. Mathis reached up and planted
his open palms on the angel's flat, muscled belly and pushed,
desperate to shove him away, while the angle plunged his cock deep
into Mathis mouth and gullet over and over.

He withdrew just enough to allow the young acolyte to desperately gasp
for air, but never pulling out enough to allow Mathis to close his
mouth. The angel's vice-like grip crushed the back of his neck and
lower part of his skull in its hold, keeping him from shaking his head
to dislodge it.

In this fashion, the angel slammed his cock home, again and again,
while Mathis could only weep and gasp for breath when the angel's
plunges permitted. Sticky spittle and tears smeared across his face,
and he occasionally feebly kicked his legs when he was desperate for
breath, which Ilichael usually answered by withdrawing and allowing
him to breathe for a moment before shoving his cock up against the
back of Mathis' mouth, riding his momentum to plunge down the back of
the mortal's throat again and again, using brute force to turn the
passage into his personal fuckway.

Finally, when Mathis was sure he could take no more, he gave a mighty
heave. On the verge of passing out and with the strength of
desperation, he shoved as he squirmed away from the angel, and
Ilichael launched himself upward on wings of burning fire.

In a flash, Mathis flipped himself over, crawling on hands and knees
just long enough to build momentum to run, and fled.

Uselessly, of course. An impact stole away his breath, and the
crushing strength of the Lord's Fury slammed into him from behind,
stunning him for a moment. He dropped to his belly, smacking his head
into the firm ground and slid a few feet, with the angel Ilichael
clinging tenaciously to his back.

I'd hoped to spare you the indignities and violations visited upon you
by the profane. But it seems you have chosen to be suited for naught
else.

Mathis stirred, groaning, as Ilichael shifted slightly, and pressed
his spit-slicked cockhead — so smooth and pointed — between the
acolyte's firm asscheeks. He pressed and Mathis groaned again as the
cockhead butted against his inner self, just above his asshole.
Ilichael slipped his arms up under Mathis' armpit and then clasped his
hands behind the mortal's neck, gripping him tightly and preventing
him from fighting.

The angel hunched against him, and the cockhead slipped, ever so
slightly down to contact Mathis' hole. Then, with a sigh, Ilichael
began to press.

The angelcock was shaped like a wedge; a pleasantly plump head, well
rounded and comfortable to take for one accustomed to doing so. But it
widened rapidly from that point. As the angel's cockhead slipped into
him, however, and Ilichael bore down, focusing his strength on driving
into Mathis, that cock widened quickly and alarmingly.

For every inch it sank into him, it stretched him terrifyingly,
splitting his asscheeks open, revealing the lips of his asshole
gripping that thickened flesh. As the angel forced himself into
Mathis, those lips stretched obscenely, broadening further and further
until the skin was thin and gaping. The angel swiftly pulled his cock
out, so quickly that he left Mathis' hole gaping and swollen, before
plunging back in, deeper this time.

Mathis screamed in agony as the angelcock drove itself deeper and
deeper into him, splitting him open, impossibly wide and deep. It
dominated him utterly; his hole did not envelop it. Rather, he felt
that the center of his being was the obscenely thick cock, and there
was no hole per se — no line where the slick cock ended and he began.

He was merely an adornment on the massive cudgel splitting his ass
wide, and his only solace was when the angel finally stopped forcing
himself deeper, as his public mound shoved itself fully up against
Mathis' split, bulging asscheeks, shoved so rudely aside by the width
of that angelic weapon.

It begins in earnest, now. This shall go quickly; I am merciful.

Mathis' tears burned down his face, and he couldn't reply because he
was in so much agony. The angel withdrew slightly, and then plunged
back home. Then, the cock pulled away a little further, and slammed
home. In short order, the angel released the mortal from the headlock
and instead clutched his hips, wielding them like handles. He wasn't
so much shoving his cock into Mathis as pulling the mortal onto his
cock, over and over. The force of the rape was such that it took all
of Mathis' strength to keep his head from slamming into the ground
again and again; there was no way he could fight for his freedom.

The fat cock sluiced its way, slipping on an alchemy of Mathis' own
internal juices and the slow, steady stream of pearlescent precum the
wedgelike cock continually leaked into the orifice it ravaged. The
angel raped him for what felt like hours, until finally, with a roar
that he more felt than heard, Ilichael, the Fury of the Lord, came in
the acolyte's deepest bowels, spitting gout after gout of white-hot
semen in him.

Mathis screamed in agony.

Ilichael pulled his cock out of the mortal, shoving him away as he
stumbled to his feet, the tip of his now-drooping cock still leaking
the strange, brilliant fluid that was nothing like the ejaculate of
any man. Mathis rolled into a fetal position, clutching his belly as
the luminous, raw power coarsed through him. The white-scarred furrows
on his back burned as though set on fire, a sensation matched only by
the agony in his nethers and bowels.

It is done.

Mathis sat up, shrieking, in his bed in the monks' cells. The pain, so
horribly agonizing, faded with the dream, leaving only a phantom
twinge to remind him that he'd experienced it at all.

The space behind his eyes felt as though someone had kindled a fire
there, and most terrifying of all: he couldn't see anything. He sobbed
and gritted his teeth against the pain, blinking tears out of his eyes
in hopes that his sight might return.

He heard his door slam open then, and slight movement caught his eye.
It was blurry, and for a few heartbeats, the young man stared hard at
the shape, until it resolved itself into the shape of a guard, his
weapon drawn and seeking an enemy. Mathis sat up in his bed, pulling
his covers around him and tried to stop sobbing.

"It's...it's nothing..." he said, and the guard just looked at him like he
was mad. Satisfying himself with another glance around, the guard
shook his head and then left, closing the door behind him.

It wasn't until Mathis had calmed his breathing and wiped the hot
tears from his face that he realized that he'd ejaculated in his
sleep, making a sticky mess of his bedclothes.

* * *

The cell door clinked shut behind the young monk, who carefully
balanced the tray of food in his hands. He passed one empty cell after
another, their iron gate doors hanging wide open like hungry mouths.
There were no other guards down here, for there was only a single
prisoner, and it was judged too dangerous to allow him too near others.

At the very end of the corridor, the monk stopped at the only sealed
prison door. With his foot, he slid the bar at the bottom of the gate
to one side and the small panel there slid open. He placed the tray on
the ground and pushed it into the cell.

The man inside lay on his bunk, facing away from the door. The young
monk couldn't tell, but it looked like the man was...masturbating.
Looking closer, he saw that the walls of the man's cell were crusted
with dried ejaculate, some of it simply spattered onto the wall. Other
areas, however, seemed different — as though the semen had been
gathered and used to write half-mad things and images on the wall.

At the center of the cell, directly opposite the door, the image of a
figure loomed. Drawn entirely in now-dried, crusted semen, it was the
image of a hulking, massive man. It was difficult to tell any
features, save two: the massive cock that hung between his legs, and
the impressive spread of antlers that grew from his head.

It was an image of the Stag-God rendered entirely in the man's seed.

"Is that him?" the monk asked, and the man in the cell stopped what he
was doing, as though surprised. He quickly sat up and spun on his
bunk, whirling to face the door. The monk had been right — the man was
masturbating, his cock thick and angrily red looking. Not merely from
his erection (though that was prodigious, easily), but it looked...
abused. Chafed, perhaps.

"You aren't Volryn," the man accused. The man's hair and slight beard
were long and shaggy, and as he sat facing the young monk, he played
with his cock even now, gently stroking it from bottom to top and then
back down again, squeezing just behind the head occasionally to nurse
a thin thread of continually streaming precum.

"I'm not," Mathis said, glancing away from the man's erection, and
looking into his face. "I asked him to let me take this duty from you.
I wanted a chance to speak with you."

"To speak with me?" the prisoner spat. "To jeer at me, you mean. To
mock me, to see what degradation looks like in a man who has fallen?
Take heed, then — tend your faith well, lest this be your fate."

As he spoke, the man leaned back in his bunk, and stroked his cock
more furiously. Gathering up some of the sticky cockspittle he was
leaking on two fingers, he reached down between his legs and shoved
those fingers deep in the shadowed hole between his asscheeks.

"That's not why I'm here," Mathis said, glancing worriedly over his
shoulder in the direction of the guard. "I'm the one they sent to the
cult. You're Gerel, aren't you? The one who was...who met the Stag-God?"

Gerel stopped his self-abuse, and simply stared at the young monk for
a moment. He glanced downward and saw that Mathis' robes bulged
slightly. In a flash, he crossed the room and knelt at the gate,
shoving the tray of food aside. Hungrily, he reached out between the
bars for Mathis' crotch, but the quick monk pulled away quickly.

"What are you doing?" he cried in alarm.

"Please," the man sobbed. "Oh, please. Have mercy. No one understands.
I need it; won't you give it to me? Even Volryn, randy little Volryn,
all he wants is my cock. Grossly swollen by the seed of the Stag-God
it is, and always hungry, but I...won't you give it to me?"

Mathis neared him again, glancing over his shoulder. He swallowed
nervously.

"Do not worry," Gerel assured him. "The guard never comes down here.
I've fucked young Volryn raw, with him squealing loud enough to have
the Holy Illuminate himself hear, and the guard never noticed."

Mathis nodded and stepped forward, parting the front of his robes.
Part of him wondered why he did it, but that was not the part of him
in control now. His meaty cock sprang from his robes, and Gerel lunged
forward. The monk slipped his cock between the bars of the prison
gate, and the outcast priest hungrily swallowed the whole thing, to
the root, in one fell swoop. Mathis groaned in pleasure as Gerel
worked tongue and throat to pleasure the young man's thick cock.

"I know," Mathis whispered to him, soothingly. "I've only been with
those like you, you know. Those who have lain with the Stag-God. Even
once removed, though, I feel the hunger for Him all the time. All the
time."

Gerel hungrily suckled at Mathis' long shank, worshipping it. No, not
worshipping it, Mathis understood; rather, worshipping the Stag-God
through him.

The shock of that understanding sent a cold chill down his spine, and
the sudden blooming of pain behind his eyes nearly made his knees
buckle. He pulled away, quickly, leaving Gerel whimpering for his
cock, reaching through the cell bars, desperately trying to touch it
again.

"No, stop this," Mathis said. He closed his robes and frowned down at
the pathetic priest before him. "Don't you understand? Can't you see
what they've made of you? Look at yourself! Don't you have any shame?"

Gerel collapsed to the floor of his cell, hiding his face in his hands
and wept.

"I never wanted this!" he said, sobbing. "This is misery!"

"It is," Mathis agreed, kneeling at the gate and reaching a hand in to
comfort the fallen priest. "These degradations are wrong. They will
pay for them."

Gerel looked up suddenly, contempt twisting his face.

"Degradations? Idiot boy — you don't know of what you speak. I am
imprisoned here against my will! All I want is to go to Him. He told
me to come to Him. Don't you understand? He's waiting for me."

The desperation in the man's voice and face sickened Mathis. He stood
quickly, and fled. How much of what he'd seen was his fate? Exactly
how much of a sacrifice was he being asked to make?

He didn't want that for himself. How could anyone want such
enslavement to that kind of carnal existence? With no thought of
higher spiritual goals, other than the brief flash of an orgasm before
descending once more into misery?

Thinking such thoughts, Mathis returned to his chamber, and prepared
for his journey.



Regards,
~The Satyr
the.satyr@gmail.com
Y!IM: the_oaken_satyr