The Erotic Mind-Control Story Archive

I.

From: Professor Janice Willard

To: Dr. Beatrice Kingsley

I write the following letter in no confidence that I will be believed, but I urge you to accept it as a faithful account of the recent and most shocking events I witnessed in the course of my tenure at St. Agnes College these last few months. It must also serve as my final confession, for already I feel myself yielding to the dark impulses that now whisper in the depths of my soul.

I fear there is precious little left of the woman and colleague you once knew. The human psyche is a frail thing, not accustomed to the shattering truth of empyrean revelation. We have no understanding of the forces which govern this universe; we skitter about like pathetic insects, living meaningless lives and searching for meaningless purpose. Our feeble minds cannot grasp the shape of undying entities which lie dormant between the ageless stars, and yet we are so easily swayed, shaped, transformed when such forces reveal themselves to us. I have come to realize that we need not fear the madness that follows our moment of revelation, for it is a necessary step to rid ourselves of the urge to quantify in scientific fashion, that which cannot be explained. Only after our transition can we ascend from delirium, to experience pleasures only a servant of the Flesh can know.

Our final journey, Beatrice, is not one of understanding, but of worship and obedience.

I first learned of the accursed thing as I perused the papers of Dr. Nicholas Sandhurst, renowned archeologist and student of the occult. In one of his last letters addressed to me, he wrote with great excitement of his travel plans to Northern Massachusetts, in and around the Clayborne valley, located roughly a hundred miles North of Arkham, beyond the deep and troubled currents of the Miskatonic. Aside from his stated aim to pursue archeological field work, my former teacher and mentor also expressed a desire to visit me at nearby St. Agnes in order to enlist my help and advice regarding matters he seemed strangely reluctant to elaborate upon.

At the time I was delighted by the news, and wrote back in haste to assure Sandhurst that I could easily accommodate him should he opt to stay in the region for an extended period. As you already know, I had by then achieved a position of some importance within the St. Agnes faculty, and now resided in a lofty, two-story colonial house, one of the many on-campus residences provided to esteemed members of the professorial staff. Having been out of touch with friends and colleagues over the years, I confess I relished this unlooked-for opportunity to play host to my dear old mentor and friend, and to reminisce about our days together at Miskatonic University.

But the joys of impending reunion were soon tempered by a second letter, delivered at St. Agnes in mid-summer. This time, the tone of Sandhurst’s writing was far more agitated, bordering on the irrational. He rambled on about queer things, and made repeated mention of some horrid evidence obtained in the course of surreptitious investigations. He also expressed grave fears regarding shadows who followed him and spied on him as he sought to uncover the unspeakable truth. The whole letter betrayed a frantic, paranoid attitude, quite at odds with the affable, jovial man I knew. Needless to say I was utterly baffled.

Sandhurst’s third and final letter, received immediately upon my return from an August Semiotics conference in East London, at last conveyed some of the specifics of his research. After a meandering, ill-boding prologue in which he expressed fear that the letter might be intercepted by ‘agents of the Flesh,’ he wrote at length of the nefarious legends concerning the wild, untamed valley North of Clayborne; amidst his rambling missive were claims that these supposedly local legends shared a host of disturbing similarities with the mythos of far more ancient and degenerate proto-diabolist traditions.

Regarding the baleful nature of these tales, I could scarcely object, having lived in the area for some time; I knew how these forlorn hills of Northern Massachusetts had retained an eerie reputation, one that had somehow kept avid real-estate developers and tourists at bay. The origins of these superstitions were hard to ascertain since the loutish, uncultured residents from Wellington or nearby Farnham’s Field would not speak of such things, but the sinister Amerindian legends alluding to evil spirits that haunted the hills surely had something to do with it. Furthering these simple-minded beliefs was a substantial amount of admittedly disturbing anecdotal evidence found in the historical record – I note in passing the still-unexplained vanishing of some twenty Dutch families who sought to settle the Clayborne valley circa 1885, and the notorious ‘Kierstede’ incident of 1927, in which nuns from a local convent were afflicted by the onset of sudden and violent madness.

But appalling tales notwithstanding, I simply could not substantiate Sandhurst’s wilder claims. Though aware that occult legendarium was his area of expertise, I deigned to remain wholly suspicious of alleged parallels between quaint Amerindian folklore and fragmentary passages from the accursed Pkatonic Manuscripts. No less improbable to my eyes was his insistence that an unpublished account of the aforementioned ‘Kierstede’ horror closely resembled the ghastly descriptions he had unearthed from a rare unexpurgated copy of the Comte d’Erlette’s Culte des Ghoules.

Wanting to discuss these matters further, I muted all criticism for the time being and replied to my esteemed mentor with a brief missive expressing sympathy, and urging him to contact me at the earliest opportunity. Though concerned for his mental health, I could not give the matter further attention, with late August now bringing in the usual flood of students to St. Agnes. In spite of our isolated location, the centenarian all-women’s college enjoyed quite the enviable reputation among the upper echelons of New England society, and I felt no small sense of pride and responsibility as I prepared for another busy school year. I was of course wholly unaware of the ominous revelations that would soon befall me.

II.

September found me engrossed in my work, teaching seminars in the History and Ancient Languages departments. All seemed well with my undergraduates, who adapted well enough to the exacting academic routine, assisted in their travails by the competent staff of graduate and post-graduate candidates I had been lucky enough to assemble in the past few years. On weekends, students and faculty members alike found passing relief in short strolls around the campus, taking in the lush beauty of leafed hills that flourished in the deep reds and yellows of autumn.

St. Agnes itself rested upon a hilltop, making it an ideal vantage point to the whole region. To the North one could glimpse the distant Clayborne valley, stark and impenetrable even under sunny skies. Garrison road wove its way Eastward, past an old Civil-war era cemetery with slanted, moss-covered headstones. As for the college campus, it covered several acres of land, fit for all manner of exciting outdoor activities. The main building, fashioned in flamboyant Gothic Revival, appeared a lone fixture of civilization in the region, its cloistered arcades and ogive-shaped windows quietly surveying well tended grounds crisscrossed by hiking paths and trimmed bushes.

But as the lingering warmth of early Fall gave way to crisp, frosty mornings, I once again grew concerned, having received no word from Sandhurst after my late August reply. In desperation I lodged a number of long-distance calls to his residence in Arkham, without luck. I then made inquiries on his behalf at Miskatonic University only to be informed he had gone on extended leave upstate without specifying an itinerary to his colleagues or assistants. Even my repeated requests to the local sheriff’s department in nearby Clayborne proved fruitless. It appeared that my former mentor had mysteriously vanished.

It was shortly after the Feast of St-Michael, on September 30th or thereabouts, that I finally received word of Sandhurst’s horrid fate. He had indeed traveled to the Clayborne region, his remains having been found in a lone, dilapidated hunting cabin he had rented on the outskirts of Hambrooke, barely fifteen miles away from the St. Agnes campus. For days afterwards I was left in a state of bereavement and shock, attempting to understand why my mentor had not contacted me earlier. I sought to gain information beyond the meager initial reports, but the sheriff’s office was reluctant to share any details of the wretched affair. In light of my continued insistence however, constable Ambrose Barnett finally settled on a compromise, confirming a number of strange rumors reported in the Arkham Gazette days after the incident, as well as agreeing to release a number of Sandhurst’s belongings to my care.

Chief among these items was his leather-bound, bloodstained diary, recovered by the State Police, which I began perusing at once in the hopes of learning of my mentor’s activities and last known whereabouts. The opening entries seemed straightforward enough, offering a record of Sandhurst’s research in a smooth, sharp stroke of the pen, and in the precise language one expects of a serious scholar; but the writing floundered increasingly in the subsequent entries, as did the clarity and logic of the arguments. What had begun as mere curiosity had gradually evolved into obsession, with Sandhurst coming to believe that the grisly legends he studied had some actual basis in fact. His growing terror was evident, with notes in the margins implying that the mere act of searching for information entailed some dark peril he would not readily identify. I was even more puzzled by the lengthy portions of the diary lavished with long runic sequences – a chaotic mishmash of Egyptian and Sumerian that hinted at a queer form of madness.

The latter parts of the diary were more baffling still – the scribbling labored and barely decipherable, the last pages filled with rants of lunacy that presaged some monumental and catastrophic event. The final entry was a complete mystery, consisting only of one word – Ash’ra – copied over and over across a dozen pages in a pleading, almost mournful scrawl. I could only speculate that Sandhurst had written it on the night of his hideous demise, officially dismissed as the work of a famished carnivore even though the local coroner had never witnessed evidence of such unprovoked animal savagery in all his years of service, and was queerly reluctant to rule conclusively on the exact nature of the beast involved in spite of his extensive experience in such matters.

Adding to the mystery were the many convenience-store map of the Clayborne region, folded and stuffed inside the diary, upon which the location of several local mine shafts, wells, clearings and abandoned villages had been circled, then crossed off in bright-red marker. From this I surmised that Sandhurst had arrived in the region some time ago, apparently conducting field research. Certainly the heap of speleological equipment (carbide lamps, candles, boots, fiberglass helmet, ropes, bolts, hangers, anchors and harnesses) found in the trunk of his vehicle left me puzzled, as did his frantic diary entries, which hinted at ‘perilous underground expeditions,’ which had failed to produce key evidence he so desperately sought.

The last and perhaps most curious clue was the pendant Sandhurst had been clutching as he was being devoured. Wrung from the dead fingers of his severed hand, the odd talisman was carved in pure silver, suspended on a long, black leather string. The representation was that of a snake coiled upon itself, rearing its head, as if poised to strike. The workmanship was archaic but flawless, and unmistakably pagan, though its exact polytheistic origins could not be readily determined. Special attention had been paid to the pattern of the scales and the shape of the fangs though the bizarre ornament measured less than an inch in length. I admit I was especially captivated by the lone jeweled eye in the center of the serpent’s head – a tiny, blood-red ruby that shone with hypnotic luminescence whenever one dangled before candleflame.

Oh Beatrice... perhaps it was foolish of me to seek answers in the wake of my mentor’s death... or perhaps it was unavoidable. In the end, I felt I owed dear Nicholas a great deal, having learned much under his tutelage. I was greatly indebted to him for his teachings and lasting friendship, and grew determined to honor his memory in some fashion. I thought little of the eerie dangers alluded to in his diary, wishing only to resolve the startling enigma of his death to my complete satisfaction.

III.

Early October brought a chilling stillness upon St. Agnes, the weather becoming uniformly dismal in baffling contradiction to the many favorable meteorological forecasts promising clear and sunny skies. During the evenings, the drafty stone halls of the university seemed to whisper of a bygone age of hushed calamity and superstition; windows everywhere were barricaded against a relentless wind, which had stripped the last of the leaves off the trees outside and heralded the onset of winter much earlier than expected, even in these northern parts.

A foul mood soon prevailed upon the college, made worse by the dreadful automobile accident suffered by Professor Owens on the moonless eve of October 9th, afflicting the much-liked doyen of our Theology department with a nervous condition so acute as to require permanent care in a psychiatric facility. News of the man’s forced retirement were met with dismay by everyone, but there were some who speculated timidly of the odd circumstances that surrounded the calamity – Owens’ horrified grimace, which had so unnerved rescuers who pulled him from the flaming wreckage of his car, and his subsequent fits of hysterical screaming whenever one dared to ask him exactly what he had seen on the road that night, and why he had deliberately veered his vehicle into a nearby ravine as a result.

In the wake of this most unfortunate incident, Dean of Faculty Mitford made hasty inquiries to various Universities as far South as Boston and Providence in search of a replacement, and deemed himself quite fortunate when he quickly secured the services of one Lilith Morgan, an apparently well-credentialed professor on extended sabbatical who was undeterred by St. Agnes’ remoteness, and was quite eager to step in as guest lecturer for rest of the year.

Admittedly, I found this Ms. Morgan to be quite the unusual personage, making her acquaintance during a faculty reception – an occasion of note among jealous colleagues who did not care for the way in which Dean Mitford and his wife Alice forwent their usually stern demeanors to lavish outlandish praise upon our new ‘savior.’

By all accounts the woman was highly intelligent, charming faculty guests as she conversed over canapés and champagne. Her exact age was uncertain, though she seemed to me no younger than thirty, showing demure tastes in dress and attire. I confess my attention was drawn by her casual gestures – the running of her hand in her dark, auburn tresses, or the parting of her rosy lips when she chose to endear someone with a smile. Her Old-Brighton accent included strangely antiquated forms of speech, and she scrutinized me with keen interest when we finally shook hands and exchanged pleasantries. The brief episode might have hardly merited mention if not for the vividness of her Sapphire-green eyes, which made such an impression upon me that afterward I found myself unable to recall any of the specifics of our discussion.

Striving to put this distracting episode out of my mind, I soon turned my attention back to Sandhurst’s writings. Though my days were now spent in lecture halls or in my faculty office, I began to make nightly visits to the university basement level, aiming to study the cryptic passages of the diary more closely, using tomes of ancient lore found in the library’s special collections vault. I toiled for many nights in the hopes that the excerpts might in fact be part of a coded sequence. I felt isolated in the vast, empty maze of books and mahogany shelves, among musty smells of aged parchment and nervous shadows that quavered with every flick of the candle; the ominous silence of the library soon came to exert a peculiar effect upon me, as though I had ventured into a vast, underground tomb.

My first breakthrough came when I established that Sandhurst had indeed ciphered many of his entries using a clever reversal technique, as well as obscure versions of Sumerian cuneiform. The trick was easy enough to master if one enjoyed my level of fluency in ancient tongues, and soon I was immersed in my late mentor’s unriddled narrative, eager but ill-prepared for his shocking account.

As near as I could understand it, Sandhurst had gone mad while pursuing a cult known as the Sisters of Yduir – an elusive, ill-documented heresy that included in its improbable lineage elements of a queer prehistoric mythos that supposedly predated the rise of Babylon by several ages. For any serious scholar to suggest that such an ancient faith might have survived to the present day was indication enough of folly, but I read on anyway, resolved to uncover the shape of Sandhurst’s madness. I cannot accurately describe the eerie impressions that befell me then, dear Beatrice, for the diary went on to assert that all members of this ancient faith were female, and worshipped a daemonic Goddess known across the ages under many names... Ash’ra the Red-Eyed... Serpent of Light... Goddess of the Flesh... and countless others which I no same person would utter.

I grew wholly absorbed by the disturbing narrative in spite of my better judgment. I was especially intrigued by the enigmatic influence of this “Goddess” over her followers, and the legends cultivated by the cult, which spoke of Ash’ra’s eternal slumber in the desolate infinity between the elder stars; it was said that this Goddess still dreamed of an eternal reign upon the Earth, and reached out periodically from abysses of time and space to seduce mortal females into her thrall.

The passages describing Yduiric ceremonies were even more vivid. They... affected me in the strangest ways. In the nights that followed my initial breakthrough, I strove to understand the many sensual descriptions of acolytes succumbing to lust and religious fervor. The worship of Ash’ra involved a surrender of mind and soul during orgiastic ceremonies, emphasizing a mystic bond between the followers and their Goddess – a kind of mystical, Sapphic gestalt so fastidiously described as to leave me dazed and breathless. Rites had a lavish feel to them, perhaps to ease the worshippers on the path to subservience. At times the diary described how an ordained Priestesses would be tasked with the ‘Revelation of Mysteries’, in which secrets of the Dark Goddess initiated a kind of hypnotic trance among listeners; other ceremonies forwent such formal trappings, beginning with a kind of mass-chant that overcame the whole congregation, culminating in the moment of ‘Soul-Giving’, when all assembled women, now moved wholly by the spirit of their Goddess, reveled in one another.

What a curious and engrossing narrative! Night after night I shivered, helpless to imagine the myriad of rituals and pleasures in minute detail. All of it was charlatanry of course, the product of an ailing mind... and yet I experienced an undeniable thrill whenever my fingers reached for the leather-bound diary. It pages exerted such fascination that it became difficult to even put it down; often I would run my fingertips over the symbols, allowing the lush, sensual poetry of each description to weave its rhythms into my thoughts.

It will come as no surprise that exhaustion was a foreseeable consequence of long nights spent in avid research. I had become tired and irritable, feeling immense frustration if some unforeseen event somehow interfered with my research schedule; I even drew the attention of colleagues, who were concerned by my appearance and suggested I might be suffering from a grave case of insomnia. After a troubling episode in late October in which I nearly missed a morning lecture, I resolved to put my activities on hold, storing the diary away under lock and key in the upstairs study of my residence. My interest in the Ash’ran heresy had grown rather fervent, eliciting confusing thoughts and emotions, and I firmly resolved to put all this nonsense about ceremonies, robed priestesses and languid surrender out of my mind.

It was at that time that the dreams began.

At first I blamed these new ills on stress and other assorted difficulties – the dreary weather, and the increased work burden that came with the looming mid-terms. I became restless, and took to working long hours at the university in order to avoid the foreboding emptiness of my residence. Occasionally I snapped at colleagues, feeling ire for no particular reason, while the diary remained locked away in my study. I did my best to occupy my mind with more relevant things, focusing on my students even though sensual images would come back to haunt me night after night, from the moment I climbed into bed and rested my head on a pillow.

How shall I describe my ephemeral visions to you, dear Beatrice? In truth, it felt as though I was not sleeping at all, merely laying awake, staring wide-eyed in the empty dark, waiting for the distant chant to emerge from the hills beyond. The silk drapes that hung over my bedroom window stirred ominously while I listened for hours, for whole nights at a time, afraid to stir or even breathe. I strained to hear the harmony of voices. How wonderful they sounded, Beatrice! Such angelic whispers that sent shivers throughout my body, ad left me aroused and delirious. I could not make out any of the words– the chant was too distant – but I sensed there was meaning in this unearthly chorus... a hidden message meant for me, but I could not yet comprehend.

It was not long before the dream-song refused to relinquish its hold upon me. Soon it commanded me to listen, and I was helpless to obey. I listened and slept and dreamed and listened and dreamed and listened and slept. Neither the arousal soaking between my legs nor the slow, relentless, hypnotic stroking of my own fingers could stir me awake; it was only natural, for I was entranced by the song.

I listened... slept... listened, and on the fourth night, the chorus revealed its meaning to me.

I marveled in understanding. How simple. How silly. The diary, of course. I had to continue reading it. I needed to translate it. All of it. I needed to find out everything I could about the Sisterhood...

IV.

My days became long and wearisome, as I lectured or spent time in my faculty office slaving away on corrections in a self-imposed diversion to insure that neither my fellow professors nor my students suspected anything. The late evenings often found me in a state of restless anticipation, eager to return furtively to the library, with its shadowed alcoves and crypt-like silence. There I was free to leaf through old grimoires, taking copious amounts of notes in a trembling hand before turning my all of my attention back to the diary. Though I now read Sandhurst’s cipher with ease, I somehow found the discipline to make a detailed transcript.

In the course of my research, I learned many dark and wondrous things.

There was, for instance, the matter of the snake-pendant, a revered artifact of the Sisterhood symbolizing mindless obedience in service to the Goddess. The diary claimed Sandhurst had stolen it from an Ash’raic worship site out in the desolate forests of Arkham, a find he later regretted when he came to believe the jeweled item was ‘cursed,’ mysteriously turning up in his possessions over and over in spite of his repeated attempts to rid himself of the thing.

There was also a brief but fascinating narrative of the doomed Foster expedition of 1878 – which vanished under mysterious circumstances somewhere within the Belgian Congo. Far from keeping with more traditional accounts of tropical disease or tribal unrest to explain the ultimate fate of the British explorer and his party, the diary went on to allege that a porter who’d been part of the expedition had surfaced in a Tshuapa mission months after the disappearance, suffering from delirium after a nightmarish escape through the jungle. Though he raved hysterically about a Temple of ‘Snake-Women’, the missionaries (to their credit) had been diligent in their transcription of the dying man’s tale, first relating Foster’s elation as he stumbled upon the incredible archeological find, then delving in the horror that followed: the first signs of odd behavior from Foster’s wife and her female entourage, the distant chanting and pounding of drums which could not be precisely located, the dreadful stone idols of naked females with long hair and strange, serpentine bodies, and the final, horrifying night of sacrifice that occurred as the women worshipped the evil Goddess of the Temple.

Still reeling from this astounding tale, I then happened upon mystic references to the wild, uninhabited region beyond Clayborne, references that suggested the valley’s potential as a place of great eldritch confluence, where the barrier between our world and the infinities beyond it was weaker and more easily traversed. I shifted in my chair, the now familiar arousal weaving its way between my legs as I read entries detailing Sandhurst’s contemplations of sheer cosmic terror. The man had risked his already frail sanity by perusing accursed tomes of forbidden knowledge locked in steel vaults at Miskatonic University, and in the process had come to believe that Ash’ra had visited this Earth during the nameless Ages before man... loathsome epochs, when Yog-Sothoth, Dagon, and Great Cthulhu itself dwelled underneath lifeless oceans and elder stars. The last push which drove Sandhurst into the abyss of raving dementia had been the suggestion that Ash’ra had left her own abominable imprint behind... a seed planted far into the caliginous entrails of the Earth... a gift of dark knowledge and corruption that would claim anyone who stirred It from deathless sleep.

Goddess! Such mesmerizing visions began to coalesce in my mind! A waking delirium of wanton urges blazed into a wet fire that lapped at my sex. And then… oh Beatrice... I came across other passages... wonderful passages... more rites of the Yduir, described in loving detail. My eyes widened, my mind opened as I beheld truths more ancient than the shadow-haunted tombs of Karnak... I’m sure the many descriptions of blood sacrifice would have terrified less disciplined minds than my own, but I was not afraid. Like all rituals of the Flesh Goddess it was a lavish and intricate thing, strengthening the mystic bond that united the entranced and faithful to their Goddess, transforming them from merely obedient slaves into true avatars of Her will.

I was transfixed, bewitched by irresistible stirrings that took hold of me. My pleasure could no longer be denied. I had waited too long, and hoped I had not displeased Goddess. At last I managed to unzip my skirt, and rose from my chair long enough to slip it down to my ankles. I embraced the slow, gradual spiral into trance, even as a small, terrified part of my mind shrilled in protest. But it was no use. I was helpless. I did not resist. I knew no mortal woman could resist. My knees quivered in anticipation; my fingers brushed upwards against naked thighs... caressed... then eased themselves into my wellspring... slowly at first... savoring the dark pleasure... then pushing forth with greater need and urgency, toiling to the imagined tempo of chanting while obedience seared itself into my thoughts like unholy flame...

V.

By the first week of November, with a chill wind now confining everyone indoors, a number of my students began to complain of various nervous ailments. This was not unusual per se, since feelings of isolation from friends and family, as well as the increased work burden often required a period of adjustment, but some of the girls in other classes now showed symptoms as varied as insomnia, anxiety, stress, and an inability to concentrate; at least six of them required overnight stays in the infirmary.

Widespread fatigue also took its toll among the faculty, with several male teachers exhibiting signs of sudden and acute depression. Even the normally tireless Mr. Mitford was struck down, working half days and depending on his wife to assume the burden of everyday administration. Women in the faculty seemed less afflicted than the men, with only a few reported cases of dizziness and memory lapses, but I soon gathered from the hushed conversations between my colleagues that several unnerving incidents had in fact occurred; Janet Silkes, an assistant in the English department, was most forthcoming in this respect, confessing to me during afternoon tea in the teacher’s lounge that she’d recently experienced eerie daydreams in which the new professor – ”Ms. Morgan, is it?” – came to her, and whispered strange things she could not wholly recall.

The disconcerting incidents worsened; on November 12th, Lisa Bremmer, a second-year biology student, was discovered wandering the campus grounds after midnight wearing nothing but a night robe. Two days later, coach Hockner was found in a similar state of undress outside her one story home near Hampers road, near the wild apple orchards. In both cases the women suffered from a peculiar form of somnambulism, speaking a mixture of English and gibberish, and expressing an apparent desire to stray towards the Clayborne valley. Precautionary steps were quickly taken by Mrs. Mitford to lock up the student dorms, and to secure all outside gates on campus in order to avoid repeated incidents.

This added to a growing sense of general apprehension among students and teachers, forcing me to take precautions to avoid undue notice. I ceased my nightly visits to the library, and took pains to establish a seemingly harmless routine. Upon returning to my residence every evening, I took to fixing a late supper, followed it with cognac or brandy, and then indulged in Brahms (mostly the serenades and concertos) while sorting through stacks of peer-reviewed articles. Occasionally I invited dinner guests in order to further propagate the illusion of normalcy; upon their departure, I always tempered my excitement, pulling all the window blinds shut, waiting patiently until the late hours before retiring to the upstairs study where I kept all the sacerdotal items – incense and candles in a box on the commode, and the diary safely stowed in its locked desk drawer.

I was very careful, Beatrice, making sure that no soul suspected what truly went on in that room... the hours of chanting... the silver pendant which I held carefully before my eyes, so as to allow the rubied eye of Ash’ra to swallow all of my thoughts. No one knew that once I was fully entranced, I donned the pendant and knelt to the floor, setting the diary before me, its pages open to segments describing the many ceremonies of Soul-Giving...

It became easy to hypnotize myself, Beatrice, especially once I indulged in the pretense that I took part in genuine Yduiric ceremonies, beckoned into dark caves by alluring, nude acolytes, joining hands with fellow slave-sisters already bewitched by the harmonies of prayer. These lush, hedonic visions saw familiar faces among the congregation – students and colleagues of mine who had heard the call of Ash’ra and were just as eager to surrender their souls to Her. I was especially enamored with Priestess, who whispered so hauntingly of our obedience and bliss... whose rose-colored lips and scintillating green eyes bore such eerie resemblance to Ms. Morgan’s. It was she who opened our minds and our thoughts, even as stygian shadows stirred and writhed all around us.

I no longer had need of sleep, Beatrice. I prayed. I dreamed.

It was then that I first wondered if others were heeding the call of Goddess. I felt a growing bond... a fleeting impression of belonging, though I could not rightly ascertain its source. Curious, I began to make tentative daytime inquiries to friends and assistants of mine, indulging in idle gossip in the hopes of eliciting some small clue or confession. Many of them seemed tired and withdrawn, but I did notice how Tracy Micham, one of my promising grad students, blushed furiously whenever I steered our conversations toward the subject of sleep or dreams.

Though reluctant to speak of such things to professors, I noticed how my students whispered a great deal among themselves. I overheard them during study hall sessions, and noted how the subtle undercurrent of anxiety grew day after day. Of course, I took great care to look occupied whenever I eavesdropped, and thus showed no outward sign of excitement when I learned of the moans that could be heard late at night if one cared to wander the dorms, or of the many rumors that students attending Ms. Morgan’s theology seminars had begun to act in the most peculiar fashion.

More tangible proof of the growing change came on the morning of November 29th, following a graduate-level lecture on Egypt’s Middle Kingdom period, when I happened upon fragments of paper torn from a spiral notebook and left crumpled underneath a desk. The classroom had just been vacated by the students, and so I read the notes, immediately recognizing Tracy’s handwriting. Recalling how agitated she seemed that morning, I studied the papers closely and soon realized that the notes were undated excerpts from a kind of dream-diary – presumably a record of Tracy’s own thoughts and impressions during and after sleep.

Breathless excitement seized me as I read :

Heard the chanting again. Heard it the moment I closed my eyes. I think they’re calling out to me. They’re calling my name. They want me to join them. Jenny’s with them. She’s... speaking to me. We’re back in the cave and she’s guiding me forward. I can see Ms. Morgan waiting inside the circle. She’s wearing the flowing white robes. Her eyes are pretty and calm when she speaks to me. I don’t know the language she speak. How is it that I can understand everything? I’m afraid, but her words are in my mind now... The words are soothing. I feel so strange. I can’t think... I—

–holding the serpent before my eyes. It’s made of silver. She sways it back and forth. Ms. Morgan tells me everything will be fine. She tells me I will soon believe, just like Jenny does. I try to look away but I can’t. Her fingers are holding the serpent. It continues to swing... The ruby is glowing. I see the light reflected in her darkened eyes. I feel lightheaded. Helpless. It feels good. Ms. Morgan tells me so. It feels right to listen. I’m afraid, but it’s too late... I’m asleep now...

Priestess tells us we must obey. I can feel her in my thoughts. I can see how she wants to change me. Change my mind. God, I want her to change my mind. Just like Jenny’s. She smiles. Priestess knows what I’m thinking. Her hands rise up, and she parts the folds of her white robes. She undresses slowly. Her hair flows down like silk. She is completely nude underneath. I can’t help staring at her body... her flesh... her breasts... God... she’s beautiful. I know it’s wrong but I can’t help it... I’ve never felt that way about... about other... Oh please, I can’t–

She stares deep into my eyes and I can feel how she owns me. I think I’m love with her. Oh God. I’m in love with her. She tells me to sleep, and I can feel my eyes closing. How can it be sleep if I’m still awake? But I must obey... I must obey... I nod my head because I’m already asleep. I’m already obedient. Yes. I want to. Obedient. I’m—

–can’t sleep anymore. Don’t want to. Can’t resist. I dream of her. I dream only of her. Last night I was back in the cave. This time I was on the edge of the circle. Anne and Cheri and Pauline were with me, and Jenny stood in the center. Oh Goddess, Jenny was with Priestesses now. She had joined. Jenny wanted me to join too. I tried to say something back but I couldn’t speak. Priestesses began to undress, and so did Jenny. I watched them... Pauline moaned besides me, already tranced... my hands were free... I began to touch myself too... I couldn’t stop and Goddess I didn’t want to oh forgive me oh Goddess—

Exhausted. Don’t want to sleep, but I can’t fight it anymore. I know it’s not a dream. I know Jenny’s one of them. I asked her about it during Ms. Hemming’s class but she denies everything. I can feel her eyes on me all the time. She’s acting just like Pauline. She’s one of them too. They all are. They don’t even bother hiding it anymore—

—tried to stay awake. Looked over to the other bed, saw how Jenny shifted underneath the covers. Heard her moaning... her praying... I drew the covers over my head... tried to think of something else... but then Jenny came... Goddess, I know what she dreams about... I... want to be with her inside the dream. I want to be with her and Priestess... I want to obey... I can’t fight it... I want to...

I nearly fainted upon reading the notes, reeling as the fractured account unveiled new vistas of surrender. Strange sensations nearly overwhelmed me; I felt transported to another time and place... to this cave of mysteries where Tracy yearned to join her slave-sisters. To know that she had so vividly experienced the dream-ritual filled me with wonder – Goddess was indeed calling out from the abyss, and Her Priestess was now among us.

As I returned to my residence that night, and absconded at once to the study, I followed my usual prayers with hours of depraved fulfillment; this time I leaned forth on my knees, balanced on one hand while the other reached behind to cup my flesh, probing new, more sinful pathways to pleasure. My desire to be one with Goddess took a life of its own, sublimating my shadowed surroundings and reshaping them into visions of my entranced sisters. It was no dream... I could see the blank, familiar faces around me... Tracy and Janet and countless others, all smiling now that they had given themselves over to Priestess.

I wanted to be with them – entranced so deep they had no choice... no thought beyond obedience.

VI.

The tapestry was unraveling more swiftly now, dear Beatrice. The path to the abyss was opening; Moon and stars themselves whispered signs of the advent, foretelling the rise of Goddess’ shadow and stirring a delirium in all of us as dark and shapeless as the sunken tombs of R’lyeh.

Twenty four hours after my discovery of the dream diary excerpts, I learned of Tracy’s confinement to the infirmary under light sedation, after she’d made sudden and alarming claims regarding her dorm roommate, Jenny Rhynes. It was somewhat difficult to accommodate another patient, especially after a sudden sickness had struck down so many of the male teachers the night before, but efforts were now made to set up an improvised ward in the East Wing of the main building until such time as outside medical help could be sought to treat the sudden and unexplainable condition.

On the day that followed, Marianne Edrington, one of my teaching assistants charged with a first-year course in basic Latin instruction, hastened into my faculty office in a state of obvious agitation, so engrossed in her worries I had to insist twice before she took notice of a chair and agreed to sit down.

She looked at me across the desk, and fussed nervously with the hem of her beige turtleneck sweater, unsure how or where to begin. The conversation was a difficult one, in part because Marianne was so reluctant to accept the truth of things she had witnessed; but as our talk continued, I perceived a latent, genuine dismay, and realized she truly did believe that Ms. Morgan exerted an eerie, hypnotic influence over her students.

I quivered inwardly at her words. My hands slipped unnoticed underneath the desk, drawn once more wellspring of unholy pleasure. Marianne was an intelligent girl, not given to superstitious inclinations or accusations of witchcraft, but of course I knew better; I sat up stiffly and listened while she went on and on, too engrossed in her tale to notice what I was doing.

She spoke of the subtle signs... the sinister changes in the behavior of affected students. She claimed that many of the girls began acting strange after only one visit to Ms. Morgan’s office. Then there were the scheming whispers she had overheard among those drawn into this new circle of devotees. There were plots – yes, she was absolutely convinced – plots aimed at other students and members of the faculty... plots that were meant to entice the others into ‘joining.’

I nodded at regular intervals during her account, trying to keep still while my fingers worshipped in slow, languid circles. My nipples chafed against my blouse, engorged and stiff, betraying the evil pleasure taking possession of me. A torrent of fantasies coursed through my mind, images of Marianne in a shadowed crypt, bound to an ornate granite altar, dazed and nude but still resisting. In my mind she looked up at me... begging for my mouth to descend upon her sex and melt all resistance from her mind.

Finally I managed to interrupt her tale with inquiries about her sleeping habits; I nearly climaxed as Marianne grew flustered, first admitting to strange night-visions while repressing a shudder, then insisting she didn’t really ‘feel that way about girls.’ Contrary to all rational inclination, she insisted Ms. Morgan was behind a fiendish conspiracy to subvert the whole campus, and felt she had to tell someone before it was too late. I watched her closely in the heavy silence that followed, and saw the desperation in her eyes. Clearly, she was waiting for me to dismiss the preposterous tale out of hand, but I decided to offer reassuring smile... even as I slowly parted my thighs, allowing my fingers to slide in... deeper... deeper...

Esht’eh... Yduir... g’athlme...

I thanked her for coming to me, and promised that I would personally look into the matter, bringing any findings to the Dean’s office forthwith so as to put an end to anything untoward. Marianne’s face showed evident relief; she thanked me profusely, and nodded at my insistence that she remain vigilant in the days to come.

She got up, turned and made for the door. I watched her, feeling strangely curious. The words came suddenly, unexpectedly on my lips. “Esht’eh... Yduir... g’athlme.”

Marianne, her back still turned to me, became rigid and immobilized. Her arms stiffened at her sides and she gasped. “I hear and obey.”

Her tone was bemused. Otherworldly.

“Come back, Marianne. Sit.”

She swiveled at once, stepped back to the chair, lowered herself into it. She looked prettier in semitrance, her limpid blue eyes wide and confused underneath her dark brown curls. In my five years at St. Agnes, dear Marianne had been my brightest student, devoted and eager to teach; I’d even met her fiancé two summers ago, just after she’d completed her masters. She’d agreed to stay on at St. Agnes for another semester before applying for a permanent position at Princeton; I had promised her a dazzling letter of recommendation...

Now she tried to speak – perhaps to appeal to me in some way, or simply to demand what was happening to her; dismay slowly surfaced in her eyes as I leaned back in my chair, no longer bothering to hide the shameless stroking of my fingers.

Yes, Marianne. I’m one of them. I already belong.

I remembered the words of the prayer-chant. I knew what would happen if I uttered them. I considered Marianne, so lovely and helpless, and wondered what darkness would feast on my soul if I spoke the incantation.

I closed my eyes. Shivered. “Tnyact voglhun... tnyact cthek’tha.”

Marianne’s lips trembled as she answered, “The flesh is weak. The flesh is mindless.”

Slick fingers eased out of my sex, eased in again. “Tnyact Ash’ra’eh.”

Marianne gave an almost plaintive moan. She became frantic, aroused by her own desperate struggle. “Oh, God... ohGodohGod... no... please... Ms. Willard... Janice... please... don’t—”

“Tnyact Ash’ra’eh,” I hissed again, and this time Marianne’s head fell back while torrents of black lust flooded deep into her mind.

“F-Flesh is of the G-G-Goddess,” she gasped at last. She swung her head forward again, so forcefully that the whiplash nearly lurched her off the chair.

What had I done, Beatrice? What horror was I unleashing? Within Marianne and myself? Had I wholly succumbed to madness, as Sandhurst had? I groveled in my chair while my fingers played relentlessly, sapping all hesitation. I had become an instrument of Ash’ra’s Will.

“Listen to me carefully, Marianne. You’re going to forget everything you’ve just told me. Everything but your dreams.”

Marianne swayed on the chair, her pale hands gripping the sides to herself keep from falling. “I... don’t... can’t... have to warn...”

“Hush. It’s too late. I know you dream of Goddess.”

“I... I don’t... I–“

“Of course you do. We all do.” My body quivered as depraved passions guided my fingers to my clit. I braced my knees against the edge of the desk, white-hot pleasure pouring forth from my loins. “We dream of Goddess because we belong to Goddess.”

Marianne whimpered on her chair, still resisting.

I ceased my stroking, but the fire still burned hot and wet in my sex. I reached back and unfasten the holy relic I wore around my neck, then got up, and wobbled past the desk. Cool air licked between my legs. Finally I stood before Marianne, leaned back against the varnished oak, and slowly held up the jeweled serpent before her dazed eyes.

I began to swung it in a lazy arc. It twirled, easily capturing her gaze.

“Nooooo...”

“You must obey, Marianne.”

“Can’t... please... don’t... Janice... don’t...”

“Keep staring at it, Marianne. Good girl. Don’t resist. You cannot resist.”

“I... I–“

“You do not want to resist.”

“I... do not... want... to resist.”

“You dream of Goddess, Marianne. You dream of surrender.”

Marianne gasped softly, her body acknowledging the truth. “I dream... yes... I–“

“You must obey, Marianne. You must obey the will of Goddess.”

Acceptance sunk into her dreamy voice. “Must... obey.”

I licked my lips, tried to keep my hand steady as I held the pendant. I was stealing her mind... turning her into a slave... I was–

“You will go at once,” I said, pausing long enough to swallow. “You will find Ms. Morgan. You will tell her that you wish to be entranced.”

Marianne’s eyes widened, but then she nodded slowly. “Wish... to be... entranced.”

“You will not speak to your friends. You will not speak to anyone. You wish only to submit. It is natural. You are a slave. You want to submit.”

“Want... to... submit...”

“You will see Ms. Morgan. You will beg to be entranced. You will dream. You will join.”

“I... will... join...”

“Your flesh is weak, Marianne. Your mind is weak. Esht’eh... Yduir... g’athlme.”

Marianne’s lips parted, then quivered. Shadow consumed the last of her thoughts; she arched back in the chair, savoring the truth of it. “Yeeesss.”

I lowered the pendant and watched my hypnotized assistant rise and drift to the door, lost in her dream of surrender. Her mind was now filled with understanding. My hands trembled slightly, while a flood of depraved thoughts washed away the last shattered fragments of my conscience.

Priestess would be delighted by such a gift. Pleasure washed over me as I contemplated how long it would be before she sent her slaves to fetch me, and how I would go with them without resisting. I thought of staring at the pendant now; it would be so easy to fall into trance, and to follow dear Marianne into mindless bliss...

I left the door to my office open as I exited, so oblivious to the world around me that only belatedly noticed, as I walked along the frozen campus path, that I had not donned my scarf and jacket before heading back to my residence. I ignored the nods and greetings from colleagues, still barely aware of the chill.

The sun was dimming slowly beyond the hills, and I assumed Priestess would come for me this very night. I needed to prepare accordingly; there was no frantic hysteria as I arrived home, took the stairs and went at once to the study. I was careful and meticulous. I undressed first, then went about lighting the candles. I positioned them in a large circle. I knelt in the center, and began reading holy passages from the diary, embracing the glory that was Ash’ra.

Soon, perhaps, my sisters to come and take me.

VII.

That night, as I dreamed of the Temple, snow fell outside my window from blackish clouds.

I did not witness the sudden storm which blanketed the region in a thick, frosty mantle, caught up instead in the familiar ritual that brought me closer to Goddess. After prayer came trance, and after trance came dream, but as I found myself once more inside the cave of mysteries, surrounded by the glow and faint odor of burning torches, I sensed that this time something was different.

I noticed how pallid my sisters had become, how they stood in the circle, their flesh white and slick as a fish’s belly. Their eyes had changed too – slitted, like a serpent’s, and trained upon the granite altar, admiring Marianne’s recumbent form. By contrast, my former assistant had rosy-pink skin, though she no longer stirred on the stone slab now that the chanting had fully overwhelmed her; she gazed with eyes unseeing, searching the dark for divine guidance while her hand worked brazenly between her legs.

Priestess was with me in the dream, though I could not see her. Her disembodied voice made soothing whispers in my mind, and I learned how happy she was to have received such an unexpected gift. Phantom fingertips brushed lightly against my back, sparking shivers that coursed throughout the circle, my pale-skinned sisters sharing in the reward and pleasure of my obedience. Marianne too was pleased, especially now that the lust-trance owned her; she began to moan and agitate herself on the altar, sensing our presence somewhere near though she still couldn’t see; she ran a hand over her breasts and thanked me for sending her to Priestess.

Obeying the whispers in my mind, I crossed the circle and stepped forth to descend the flight of stone steps leading to the altar. I felt trepidation and envy, wondering when my turn would come, but the voice of Priestess revealed that Goddess had chosen a different fate for me. I could not help tensing in excitement as I drew near Marianne, who was now aroused beyond words, squirming around her fingers, her eyes searching frantically above. She chanted breathlessly in the Hallowed tongue, as did the rest of the circle, and it was only then that I realized I wore white robes.

You are priestess, the voice hissed in my mind.

I began to pray along with my sisters, slowly parting the garments and slipping them off, revealing my flesh to their covetous, reptilian-like eyes. As I reached between Marianne’s thighs to confer the First Blessing upon her, the torches around us dimmed, and I noticed something stirring beyond the circle... shiny black limbs oozing from the dark, morphing into soft, undefined shapes. None of my sisters seemed to pay it much mind, even when strange tendrils stretched out into the light, slithering possessively up their legs and ankles...

Oh Beatrice... dear love... were that I could describe the sensual communion between darkness and flesh that followed... the seeding of our bodies for the greater glory of Ash’ra. How was it that I felt no dismay when I awoke to find myself kneeling in my study, with dawn’s light shining like gold across frost-tinted windows? Perhaps I was at last beginning to realize the profound change that had taken place inside me – the knowledge that sanity and reality were meaningless human conceits, to be altered and reshaped as Goddess saw fit.

Outside my residence temperatures had fallen exceedingly, the landscape of hills and trees now morphed into a glacial expanse of solitude and desolation. St. Agnes College was now truly isolated, with all roads linking it to the outside world utterly inaccessible and communications likewise cut off. No rational explanation could be offered for such a sudden and aggressive manifestation of meteorological fury, but more to the point none was needed; the students I encountered upon my hasty return to the university seemed not to have noticed the abrupt seasonal change at all.

Indeed, most of the girls were now absorbed in a collective state of muted reflection. None seemed especially concerned by news that nearly all the male professors in the improvised sick ward had sunk deep into delirium in the wake of the snow storm; the only instances of disruption reported involved two girls who were rushed to the infirmary for treatment, after the usual hysteric claims regarding friends that acted strangely.

In spite of this new threshold of eeriness, things went on as before, with Alice Mitford conferring with faculty staff and insisting that steps were being taken to contact authorities in Clayborne at the earliest opportunity. Our acting dean behaved rather calmly in light of the emergency, but I could tell the other members of the faculty were not so confident, notably Janet Silkes, who appeared quite agitated as she told me of the mesmeric emptiness in her students’ eyes.

Clearly she had begun to suspect, and so I was careful to feign ignorance, offering words of comfort and recommending that she come and see me in my office in a few hours so we could discuss things further. I did not mention to her that nearly all my students were now of the Flesh... that I recalled the feel and touch and taste of them as we reveled and worshiped together in the underground Temple. Dear Janet had no idea that so many of us had already been swayed, caught in the rising tide of mindless obedience that would soon erase the last vestiges of our mortal existence, and bind us to Ash’ra forever.

And yet I found her quite eager to learn once she arrived to my office, first staring at the pendant while I instructed her on the finer points of ritual, then showing great enthusiasm as she worshiped fervently between my legs. Though Janet had admitted while transfixed by the jeweled eye that she loved her husband and had never considered sex with another woman, I reflected upon the power of Goddess to reshape soft, mortal minds as I gripped the edge of my desk and came over and over on Janet’s exceptionally gifted tongue. How many more students and teachers would be swayed by visions of the Goddess this coming night, fated to awaken with the desire to become slaves? How many more would lie helpless in their beds, oblivious to friends and roommates who would climb in next to them, to slip casual hands between their legs and ease their transition into devotion and obedience?

After sending Janet off to Priestess, I remembered the Sandhurst diary, which had alluded many times to the prophecy of Goddess’ coming rise. Surely the moment was nearly upon us. I could read the signs plainly, and was not alone in anticipating the portentous advent; word now came of the suddenly agitated condition of some of the delirious men, many of whom were seized with a burning desire to escape from St. Agnes at all costs. I learned that Professor Derkins had been the most fortunate in this respect, suppressing his fits of demented laughter long enough to slip away from the ward unnoticed, finding supplies and winter clothing before fleeing like a madman into the frozen wilderness; other professors chose more drastic means of deliverance, including Dr. Hemmet, who wandered into the kitchens and made improbable but effective use of a meat-cleaver, and the venerable Jonas Alkire, found headless next to a shattered cabinet in the zoology department, his hands still firmly wrapped around the vintage black-powder elephant gun he had used for his ghastly deed.

But I thought little of such trivialities, dearest Beatrice, as I left students to their ambrosial dreams of surrender and headed back to my residence. Once more I adjourned to the study, to pray and meditate while I waited for Goddess to decide upon the time and place of my taking.

It was sheer luck that I managed to stir from pleasure-trance long enough to witness the signs of impending Rapture.

I had reached the third circle of bliss by the time I rose to my knees, trembling and somehow aware of the tremendous change that was coming. Around me, the cabinets of my study shook and rattled; books began to tumble from shelves and lighted candles fluttered. Outside my window the frigid night wind stirred, and trees swayed; above in the heavens, I could hear the siren-like summons of the Goddess echoing to all reaches of black, star-speckled infinity.

Then came hellish rumblings from the earth, accompanied by a pale mist seething forth from the valley, creeping through the icy wasteland of the campus as though moved by instinct and hunger. It rolled up the hills like crashing waves before a storm. I knew at once that Ash’ra’s faithful would, on this night, be joined with Her in Flesh. At last She was reaching out from beyond the veil. Her Voice was transcending soul-chilling chasms of abhorred, harrowing dimensions separating the known from the unknowable, to enlighten Her disciples with the flame of ecstasy and Knowledge.

A psychic maelstrom seized my mind, frenzied, incongruous impressions vortexing in my consciousness. All sense of being and self vanished as I heard the joyful cries of my sisters back in St. Agnes, saw their faces and bodies writhing as their minds were being taken. It was no dream of suggestion or whispering of Divine Truth; Goddess was revealing herself, claiming Her slaves, showing them how they had always yearned to serve Her. Hundreds of women resisted for mere moments before yielding to the pleasure; hundreds more simply welcomed the Acherontic truths flooding into their minds and souls, for they were already attuned to the Will of Ash’ra through weeks of lust and dreaming.

The depravities of dark enlightenment soon followed. I began to moan as ethereal fingers touched and caressed me in the most intimate places. Phantom lips pressed against my skin, soft and warm as they kissed every inch of me. My body was no longer a physical entity but a conduit to orgiastic delirium. Unseen tongues slipped into my mouth and my sex, ravishing me, filling my mind with the glory of a hundred simultaneous climaxes.

I heard other cries too, in the wake of the sacrifice and consumption of maleflesh, but the loathsome noises were soon drowned out by the rapturous chant of communion. I tasted blood on my lips, and joined the chorus, still unable to exert any real control over my body; I was trapped in a prison of flesh, my mind engulfed in oceans of heavenly bliss.

After the passing of strange eons my consciousness returned to the confines of my body. I found myself lying on the floor of my shadowed study, among the heap of knocked-over shelves and strewed papers, and froze immediately at the unexpected sight of Marianne, standing over me.

I felt no horror at the sight of so much blood upon her; rather it contrasted alluringly with her nudity, her flesh pale and glossy as moonlight, with a web of crimson lines painted on her torso and breasts. But then I sucked in a shocked breath as I spied the snake-like sigil, faintly etched on her forehead, and the pearly whiteness that wholly filled her eyes.

Marianne turned her head slightly at the sound of my voice, though I could not tell if she was watching me. Her lips, smeared in red, curved into an amused smile, and then she spoke with a voice that brought me quivering to my knees, even before I had fully realized how obedient I had become. There were hypnotic harmonies in her speech... accentuations of an unearthly and wholly foreign nature. No mortal language could conceive of such sounds; her meaning was not imparted with words but with inflection – a timbre of lust and music that wove its way through my sex, eliciting a thrill of pleasure more intense than the phantom tongues of my delirium.

It is then that I learned of the greater purpose – the inconceivably ancient Temple that slumbered deep underneath the valley floor, and the rituals that would bring the essence of Goddess forth into this world. I looked up at Marianne, remembering the free-thinking woman I had entranced and sent into oblivion only days before, then lowered my gaze to her flushed petals. I reeled in the parfum of her arousal. Dark stirrings willed my limbs to life, and though I knew not the shape or means of the soul-corruption that would come, I leaned forward to beg for it my tongue.

Beatrice... dear slave-sister... can you conceive of such heights of pleasure? Marianne tasted of honey and bliss, and lust-fever overcame me as I drank ambrosia from her chalice. The part of her that was still human moaned approvingly, running fingers in my hair, pressing harder as I nosed her clit. She impaled herself on my tongue, and rose to tiptoes as she came in a flood of juices.

I drank every drop of her sweet nectar, and felt the world spun as I climaxed too.

When she reached down, raised my chin with a finger, and drew my gaze back into her blank, unseeing eyes, I sighed softly, for the world ceased to spin and vanished completely. Awareness of surroundings evaporated like fog in the morning sun... everything but the taste of her on my lips.

She spoke again, and I was helpless to obey.

VIII.

I have scarce recollection of the path we took upon leaving my residence, embarking on a traverse of the frozen hills on our way towards the valley. Neither of us had donned clothing of any kind, and the cold was like needles of fire stabbing at my skin, but of course I hardly noticed for I was obedient and of the Flesh.

My eyes, blinking away tears of pain and joy, caressed the firm curves of Marianne’s body as she led on. I admired the way her hands rested limply by her sides as she walked before me... the flexing of her muscular thighs as she took barefooted steps. Occasionally I noticed items of discarded clothing in our well-trotted path – skirts, chemises, undergarments – and surmised that they had been abandoned on the virgin snow by the slave-sisters who had preceded us on the way to the Temple.

Already I felt changes within me, brought on by communion with Marianne’s flesh. So engrossed was I by the sight of her lithe form that I could not help matching the rhythm of her steps, carrying on with the same mesmerized poise, as though I had become but a mirrored reflection of her. We sank towards the valley, crossing its forested threshold, leaving behind all vestiges of civilization. Every step deepened my yearning, as I pondered the ways in which my final enlightenment would come.

The landscape became one of crumbled ridges and boulders, the valley running so deep the night stars soon became obfuscated between hillflanks. Hours had gone by, and when we finally reached the opening – a fissured, human-sized gap chiseled out of a slanted rockface from which an eerie, greenish luminescence poured out – I stirred from trance long enough to glimpse the pair of sentries guarding the entrance, with smiles and eyes as soulless as Marianne’s. I could not put a name to the young woman who stood on the right, but recognized Tammy Durrand on the left, even without her glasses. How happier she seemed, now that she had been enslaved and transformed. Her hair was black and slick against her neck, her figure lean and taut, but I was more intrigued by the smoothness of her white skin, with its faintly reptilian texture. Other changes I noticed belatedly – the elongated nails, sharp and polished as blades, and the fangs in her smile. Her whole body was slick and wet, as though she had recently shed her old epidermis in the course of a strange, wondrous mutation.

Marianne entered the cave and I followed, helpless to resist her beckoning though I yearned to kneel and taste the bare smoothness between Tammy’s legs. Stooping, we made our way down a cramped rockshaft, following an steep incline of rough-hewed stone steps. Warmth and fetid odors traveled up from the shaft, as did the greenish glow, which was oddly diffuse. As we continued our descent, my eyes glazed over to the odd carvings in the rock – engraved tableaus of beauty and horror, featuring tall and graceful serpentine shapes that reveled in one another. There were other stone etchings as well... carved shapes of human females who stood perfectly still while snake-like things enfolded them in a dark embrace.

The heat and humidity grew stifling and junglelike as we went deeper. I could hear echoes of faint chanting – human voices, numbering in the hundreds, rising from the abysmal depths. As we went on, I noticed there were no more engravings, the rockface now smooth and layered with the same glossy shine that had covered Tammy’s skin. Intrigued, I reached out to run a hand along the surface and felt warm stickiness brush on my fingertips.

As we reached the bottom, the tunnel leveled and stretched wider. The green glow came from all around us, shining off slick walls though no source of illumination was apparent. A faint chorus of hissing could be heard above the distant chanting, sparking odd visions in my mind of bodies writhing in fleshy tangles; Marianne guided me deeper into the Temple, through the first of the subchambers, where more wonders awaited in cavernous expanses of Cyclopean infinity.

In one of the large grottos I saw pod-like things suspended to walls and ceiling by weblike tendrils. There were dozens upon dozens, all leathery and gray-skinned, man-sized and coated in slime that dribbled thickly to the floor. I began sweating profusely in the heat; the cave walls were covered in a lustrous shine, as though the rock also perspired. A number of oily streams cascaded from far above in thick, viscous flows, and Marianne reached out to one, cupping her hands together until they overflowed with the translucent ooze.

She began rubbing the substance all over her skin, her hands and fingers taking special relish as she smeared her breasts and tummy. She next ran her hands along her thighs, then fingered her ass hard and deep, bringing herself to a quick and intense orgasm. My nipples hardened painfully as I watched her; I nodded silently, joining her underneath the oozing cascade when she beckoned me closer.

Our skin glistened in the greenish light, our hands reveling in the feel of each other’s flesh. Marianne and I worshiped, savoring the taste of each other, our tongues growing more enthused and intertwined with each kiss, my thoughts growing more languid. Truths emerged from the backwaters of my mind, deepening my lust and awe. We fingered each other to several more climaxes, and as we left the ovum chamber, our bodies glistening from head to toe, I realized the last vestiges of atavistic repulsion had been purged from my consciousness, replaced with acceptance for the transience of my own flesh. At last I was beginning to glimpse Ash’ra’s ultimate designs for our feeble and ape-descended species.

Marianne slipped her slick hand into mine and guided me through the final maze of corridors. The taste of her still lingered on my tongue, simmering in my thoughts, and I barely felt my tiptoes brushing against the floor, as thought I floated down the tunnel in her wake. I concentrated on the chanting ahead, which I could now hear more distinctly. When we went through the birthing chamber, I gazed up in wonder, recognizing dozens of my sisters inside their cocoons of translucent jelly. Most slumbered within of course, wallowing in deep torpor while Goddess mutated their flesh into new forms more suitable for her purposes, but I saw that dear Janet was among them, and that she’d remained awake during her transition; her eyes were frozen wide, and I could only guess at the new dimensions of pleasure she was experiencing while thick black tendrils wriggled and burrowed deeper at the base of her skull.

When Marianne ushered me into the final chamber I could no longer restrain my excitement; here I glimpsed immense shapes... soaring monoliths adorned with sculpted shapes, columns of black stone which surrounded a subterranean pool of vast size and untold depth. The waters seemed to be the source of the green glow, ebbing and churning and making shadows move behind us. On the edge of this underground basin stood naked figures of the faithful... hundreds of them, up on ledges and outcroppings. None had noticed our arrival, praying with their heads bowed, as though the object of their reverence was the diffuse, gargantuan black shape that stirred far underneath the waters.

I saw the white-robed figure of Priestess standing among the group at the pool’s edge. She made a grave motion with her hand as Marianne led me down the inclined path; the chanting around us ceased instantly, though strange echoes reverberated back to us from tenebrous depths, as if voices from the darkness around us continued to pray along. The faithful now turned to witness our arrival, and a husky moan rose from the congregation. I moaned in turn, remembering phantom tongues on my sex and wondering what ecstasies ritual would bring.

Priestess pronounced blessings in the Hallowed tongue, and bowed in deference before me. The faithful fell to their knees without a word, all except Tracy Micham, who emerged from the throng and joined Marianne, both of them running hands along my body as they genuflected. Once on their knees they kissed and licked my fingertips, while Priestess offered praises to the wisdom of Ash’ra, reaching out with a teasing a finger across my sex.

Priestess lauded Goddess’ choice of a holy vessel which would carry Her seed of corruption; I quivered, immersed in the emerald glow of her slitted eyes, and made no sound as she stepped forward to bestow the final kiss; her tongue probed gently past my lips and I swooned helplessly into her arms, while she was swallowed the last remnant of my soul.

It is difficult for me to accurately describe what followed, dear Beatrice, for I was only dimly aware of the renewed chanting as my slave-sisters slipped my unconscious body into the pool. The viscous waters kept me afloat at first, but then stirred as tendrils stretched forth from underneath, brushing gingerly against my ankles. I felt a brief stab of primeval panic as I was pulled down into the thick ooze, but it faded as vine-like tendrils began to coil around my thighs, drawing them slowly apart. I thought I glimpsed some vague, Kraken-like shape sluggishly emerging from the deep, no doubt awakened by the ritual and chanting above. It was drawn to the warm flesh which had incurred on its domain, and I sensed its eagerness as the tendrils snaked ever upwards, caressing my skin.

Was this merely the unsentient seed of Ash’ra, stirring from ageless sleep, or was it a part of Her Flesh, brought forth into the world? I had no time to wonder as I was pulled in deeper, sensing something akin to yearning, as tentacled limbs probed my mouth, ass and sex, hesitantly at first, then with greater assurance. They snaked forth into me, pulsing with corruption. I climaxed as they ravished me; I drank deeply of their evil essence, letting it fill my stomach and lungs while my limbs thrashed in the water.

My body was dying and I did not care; soon, I would be reborn in service to the Goddess.

Her tongue of darkness came forth at last, thrusting slowly between my legs, weaving upwards into my womb; my mind exploded in pleasure as I felt it twitch, disgorging the seeds of Her corruption... the eggs that I would carry inside me. As parts of my flesh were dissolved and reshaped in accordance to Her will, my whole body cried out in dark ecstasy. Now I was truly Hers.

I know not how long I remained submerged in the phosphorescent depths, dreaming in Goddess’ embrace. When I awoke the shadow tendrils had gone, and I could hear a dull, distant chant somewhere above. I began to swim towards it in slow, unhurried strokes, curiously aware that my body no longer needed to breathe. When I neared the edge of the surface, I saw where the waters shallowed, and after a few more strokes I emerged from the pool, my nude flesh glistening in oily splendor.

My senses were far more acute than before; in spite of the shadows, I saw and heard my drones chanting and reveling, so absorbed by lust and ritual that they had not witnessed the ascent of their new Queen. It was Priestess who noticed first; she extricated herself from the orgiastic worship, while others gasped as they turned and beheld the miracle of my rebirth. I merely stood in silence, stretching my powerful arms, running hands over my breasts and enjoying the strange new feel of my skin.

Priestess came and knelt before me, and I did not need to glimpse into her mind in order to know what she most desired. Trancing her with but a wave of my hand, I bestowed her her final wish, guiding her mouth to my sex and allowing her a taste of corruption. She drank long and deep, climaxing while her snake-tongue fervently dove into my sex. In between orgasms, I flicked thought-summons at two of my nearby drones, who came at once and caught Priestess’ by the shoulders as she tumbled back, gasping, while the essence of Goddess worked its way deeper inside her.

The drones did not hesitate when I commanded them to slip Priestess’ body into the basin, and together we watched while she trashed for a time in the shallow waters, drifting off, then sinking into the deep. She had served Goddess well, yearning for the time of Rapture, when she might be finally beg Goddess to draw her into nether realms, where her body and soul would be consumed in infinities of darkness and pleasure. As I stared calmly at the still waters, I knew that this would be so.

I turned my attention back to the congregation, and in the hours that followed, as I beckoned my sisters forth to spread the seed of Goddess among them, I pondered the future that was to come. My drones were beyond such things of course – the only thoughts in their minds being those that I chose to put in them. I savored their lust for enslavement as I infected them, as I laid eggs in their wombs and sent them forth to spread the Truth of Goddess to all the others. Some, like Tracy and Miriam, cried out a name that no longer meant anything for me as I took them, but most of my slave-sisters simply gave voice to the pleasure of transcendence.

When I was done, when at last we were all truly joined in Flesh with the Goddess, we gave thanks in celebration and ritual.

IX.

So now you know the truth, dear Beatrice, my soon-to-be drone. No doubt you are horrified by the content of this letter, and will scarcely believe a word of it, but that will soon change. I know you will dream of chanting in the nights that are to come, and the pendant I’ve included with this letter will help you a great deal in that regard. Be certain to stare into the Eye of Ash’ra; let its hypnotic glow fill you with dark knowledge. I know you will resist at first, but the urge will fade soon enough.

But you won’t have to wait much longer in any case. The end is near; Goddess has commanded me to sent forth my drones, and to spread Her Truth far and wide. Even now, those who were once my colleagues and students are going home, eager to infect their families and loved ones. Each bears the taint of Ash’ra’s hallowed corruption; soon, thousands of new voices will join our chorus.

Yours will be one of them, since I’ve taken the liberty of sending dear Marianne to find you, and to ease your transition into a drone. Naturally, she is most eager to obey.

And soon, so will you.