His fingers drummed visible sound waves across the table. His trip-addled brain configured ripples of distortion across the shabby, hard luck, age-gone-by diner. Cade was nervous. He was always nervous before making a buy. Not drugs. A couple of doses of blotter was never an issue nor hassle. Meeting his other dealer, his real dealer, the one that counted, the vendor of need, made him nervous. Always had—always would, he supposed. A few seconds of stilted, unfriendly conversation and he would have his future, a new golden, barely conceivable future—or another expensive disappointment.

He looked at his watch. 2:58. Simon would be here. He was always on time. Or, at least, there about. Simon could be counted on for his punctuality, just as he could for the unpredictability of the initial call preceding their late night meetings. Cade’s cellphone would ring. “Got it.” No need for self-identification or reciprocating comment. Just two syllables and Cade knew the place and time.

Cade abruptly stopped the movement of his fingers and tried quickly to coral the acid waves into a quiet place. Simon slid into the booth across from him. Simon… He didn’t even know if that was his first or last name. Simply Simon. He wore a dingy brown coat. He had a couple of days beard on his face—unkempt in a way that belied a careful attention lurking, hidden, just this side of not caring.

“Is it with you?” Fuck. Cade couldn’t check his anticipation in time.

Simon didn’t look at him. He signaled a waitress for a cup of coffee. Only then did he turn to Cade. “Yes,” he said coolly. “Can you pay for it?”

For a second Cade thought he caught the hint of disapproval shifting at the edges of Simon’s thin lips. Perhaps, but he knew that Simon had set a price that would absolve him of any guilt. Cade reached in his jacket and pulled out an envelope. He turned it over in his hand, steeling himself for the separation, before sliding it across the table. He kept a single finger in place, waiting for Simon to produce the merchandise.

A small square wrapped in burlap exposed, the envelope of money released and it was done. Simon finished the remainder of his coffee less than a minute later. His eyes said “Next time” and he was gone.

Cade squeezed the small rectangular parcel in his hand and slipped it inside his jacket. He left the money for the bill and tip on the table. He hurried back to his studio in a rough nominally converted warehouse, thankful he lived so close by. Exhilaration was already eating at him.

He locked the large sliding door into place and went immediately to his low meditation table, which he had moved into the center of the space before leaving to meet Simon. He took off his clothes, tossing them on his futon against a far wall, lit two candles and sat on the floor. Holding the parcel in his left hand, he slowly folded back the wrapping with his right to reveal a small leather-bound book. Cade turned it slowly looking for signs of forgery or deception. Nothing caught his experienced eye. Typical 17th century bookmaker’s craft. Miraculous that you escaped the fire, Cade thought to himself.

He leafed through the first few pages until he came to the first conjuration. He began to read the Latin—fluent from years of living in his self-imposed hermitage of antiquarian books. He read aloud:

O dark Emporer, Master and Prince of all Rebellious Spirits, I adjure ye to leave thine abode, in whatsoever quadrant you may currently be quartered, and come hither to commune with me. I command, compel and conjure thee in the Name of the Great Triune Spirit to appear without noise and without any evil smell, to respond in a clear and intelligible manner…Venite! Venite! Submiritillor Lucifage, or eternal torment shall overwhelm thee, by the great power of this blasting rod.

Nothing appeared before him. No presence, fog or wisp of smoke. Just blank walls and sparse, uninspiring space. I adjure thee! The environment began to shift—a subtle fluid movement at the edges of his vision. Then, enfolding inwards from these edges upon him, the whole atmosphere began to fold and then pull apart again. After his eyes adjusted and became aware of the stillness that as quickly reset, Cade saw he was in prison-like room, cement walls and floor, pealing cream-colored paint. Floor sloping slightly downwards toward a six-inch metal grate covering a small drain in one corner. No longer looking at the small leather block in his hand, he continued to read a conjuration he did not know, from long out of time, and no longer comprehending or mentally checking the words:

Not to Virility, thy spirit of the carnal cock, thou Ruler of Anguish, I see thee not. I chant the praises of your chaste balls that sing families of sperm, a draught to salve my parched flesh. Empty me as the mother dost offer alms to the poor. Set thou that want answers to the petitions of Hope that dance about thy avaricious loins. Lost in the long nights and days of the Lenten Womb, I assure the reason that mouths the spells that baffle even your own Master, the Lord of tortures and misdeeds, the meter of thy Justice. On your balls, unknown and unmoved and whose love gently implores your servants forward. I lower myself to your knees, savoring and supplicate, to receive your bootless praise. Poor carnal lost to the loins, down into the precum of your anguish. Virile Lord, take me empty, me that sing the supplications, the petitions—I implore thee, my Master, unknown getting delirious, unknown delectable spells, them that arise joy in those that forfeit thy justice. I get between the faithful supplicant with love, the origin of misdeeds, I whose mouth has been given over to satisfy thy servants, fucking thou not the Lenten asshole. Alone I receivest the carnal cause of reflex like avaricious empty praises. From thou I demand the mother petitions, the daughter of your loins…

Cade was no longer alone. He was not surprised to feel another presence in the room—though not an unearthly spirit. It had been years since he had seen him, almost twenty years since junior high, but his old friend was unmistakable. Age had moved itself along Ricky’s body, lengthening and strengthening, but the image of Cade’s memory was still written large his form as only possible in a dream. They stood only a few feet apart.

Ricky had his cock in one hand—emerging from the fly of his faded Levis. A pale white snake, laying a semi-hard 7 inches across a supporting palm. A solid stretch of flesh from base to head. Cade’s first thought was that it was the head of a serpent. Long and uncut. He was surprised, though he didn’t know why he should be. He’d never seen it before. The closest he’d ever come was midnight skinny-dipping—furtive glances of Ricky’s milk-white ass reflecting moonlight. Surreptitious and dripping with paranoia and excitement.

Ricky began to urinate—a foot on either side of the drain. He seemed to pay little attention to Cade as he concentrated carefully on his aim. Cade mentally checked his hand. He could feel the tension in his arm muscles as he involuntarily began to reach around Ricky’s side. He stalled himself, debating quickly in his head, weighing the odds, benefit and potential defeat. His desire took possession too quickly and proved uncheckable. As Ricky shook the last drops from its head, Cade took the flesh and began to kneel. He knew that he would be forced to stop. He felt tension quickly ripple surprise through Ricky’s body—tightening his muscles to a single bowstring. Ten seconds and no recrimination. All tension releasing, Cade could feel the fiber of Ricky’s body relax into his mouth. Now effortlessly willing himself on, Cade increased the intensity of his open-mouthed, cramped prayers.

Hope determined their petitions. Chastity demands long praises. He shifted slightly, satisfying the tension of his sweaty, unmoved knees. He moved along, the unknown opening around the baffles, his tongue deep in Ricky’s ass. A groan swirled origin gently onto his lips. He sucked misdeeds, discomfort and anguish. Ricky groaned through this supplicating spirit of the avaricious fuck. Hope rose in Ricky’s throat as his hole received Cade’s tongue. Precum sucked, hungry, between torture and spells coming slowly to rest as another groan slid from his perineum, through his chest and out his throat.

His cock, pushed by reflex, swelled painfully in carnality. A well of cum swirled slowly in his ballsack, fucking luscious balls searching out unknown justice. Throbbing wishing to empty deeply into this unknown servant, a massive battle of cock and will. His dick delirious sliding reason from head to mouth to firm ass and suddenly straight onto his lips. Hope, an empty reflex of discomfort, never anything but a dick-poor firm offering.

As Ricky’s justice shot down his throat, Cade became aware of layers of men surrounding them obscured by sheets of fog or smoke. Each dressed in an identical black suit and dark glasses. All watching.

Cade’s environment began its fold again. Ricky and he and these gray men in their black suits, stationary icons in a shifting meta-landscape. A thread-bare plantation house fifty years too late. Ricky’s softening cock in his hand and the taste still on his lips. Pealing gilded wallpaper, chandeliers and the smell of shit and roses.

 

© 2004 Sven Davisson - Contributor's Bio