Surrender Unto Death

Surrender Unto Death

Status: In Progress

Genre: Fantasy

Houses:

Details

Status: In Progress

Genre: Fantasy

Houses:

Summary

Even the gods of old may have something to learn from the realm of flesh. Nathan, a being of ancient power, is no different. His teacher Patrice Zita is an unwilling twenty-something human female, who is more than she seems. The journey they are to embark serves as one that will alleviate boredom but also stand to tear the very fabric of reality asunder. As a result, there are some who will stop at nothing to restore the balance to all realms. Others seek the whole of creation undone, no matter the cost. This time, Nathan may not be able to stand on the sidelines.

Summary

Even the gods of old may have something to learn from the realm of flesh. Nathan, a being of ancient power, is no different. His teacher Patrice Zita is an unwilling twenty-something human female, who is more than she seems. The journey they are to embark serves as one that will alleviate boredom but also stand to tear the very fabric of reality asunder. As a result, there are some who will stop at nothing to restore the balance to all realms. Others seek the whole of creation undone, no matter the cost. This time, Nathan may not be able to stand on the sidelines.

Chapter1 (v.1) - Death and Orgasms

Author Chapter Note

His POV of an erotic show..."It is not death that a man should fear, but he should fear never beginning to live." –Marcus Aurelius... "A man with outward courage dares to die; a man with inner courage dares to live." –Lao Tzu

Chapter Content - ver.1

Submitted: March 22, 2020

Reads: 743

Comments: 7

A A A | A A A

Chapter Content - ver.1

Submitted: March 22, 2020

A A A

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Chapter One: His POV

Death and Orgasms

“Oh, yeah, baby!” Brianna Skye moans while she pumps the lower half of her gorgeous tanned body over the muscular one of her partner.  They both lay on the coffee table.  “Give it to me!  Oooh!  Your life depends on it, mortal!”

“Please!  Aaahhh!  Mistress Death, I wanna live!” Ian Puma begs as his sweat-glistened face shows an agonized expression I’m sure is real.  He has been screwing the same hole over and over for 60 minutes without coming.

“Ah-sss!  Ah-sss!  Oh, Yeah!  Harder, mortal!” she orders as she grabs his bronze chest and the unkempt mahogany hair at the top of his head.

Brianna and Ian are true athletes.  She’s been using him as a trampoline since being introduced to him today.  Instead of chatting like most people do on a first date, these two get naked and skip to the main event.

Ian starts by eating out Brianna’s pierced daisy on the couch with the precision one expects from someone in his prime.  A professional from the word “action,” Ian’s rock solid and ready to put his 10-inch pole through the hump of his life.  Aptly, that’s the name of the adult film the two star in for Naughty Cinema Productions.

Now, I know what you’re thinking.  I’m a freak, right?  Here, I am just intruding into a rented condo like this while two of the most popular porn stars of the year poke each other for the first time. 

It is not what you think.  I swear; I’m no stalker.  Maybe a little, freaky, but believe it or not, I don’t date much.  People dropping like flies keeps me up most nights.  Besides, my work doesn’t make for polite dating conversation.

And yes, I have surrogates for this sort of thing, but let’s just say they are all me.  No rest for the wicked and honorable alike.  In the end, they all cross my path.  A being like me then needs to be everywhere and nowhere. 

At all intervals, I am connected to this realm and the next without losing any sense of self.  For wherever death claims life, I am there, front and center, to facilitate the phenomenon.  Believe me, it’s complicated, and no piece of cake to balance on my tongue.

Okay, so what is the reason I’m here with this twinkle in my eye?  This realm has grown on me more than it should and, in particular, this production company.  I’m familiar with the latter because a segment of the patrons who follow Naughty Cinema’s work meet their turgid demise due to the ill use of Cialis or Viagra.  The drugs cause some tickers to explode, unlike the gents’ old peckers.  Diversions of way too much blood flow south.  Without a release after four hours, the heart gives up the ghost literally filling out more than a few hilarious police reports and open caskets. 

Shoot, I almost forgot to mention that Naughty Cinema’s high-quality videos of girl on girl, guy on girl on guy, or girl on girl on guy, shows some of the most raunchy sex on any media outlet.  The attractive actors who put strenuous effort into their spectacular performances could disappoint no one.  You’d have to be, well, dead not to find Naughty Cinema’s scenarios and setups somewhat stimulating.

I sigh at the change in venue from the open living room to the more confined bedroom suite.  The lustful scream from Brianna on all fours upon the poster bed is an enticing sight.  Ian grips a fist of the sweaty brunette strands behind her head.  His impressive abs flex as he slaps! slaps! slaps! his well-endowed spigot to meet her curvy bum.  The accompaniment is the percussion of the bed knocking against the wall as a camera pans around me.

No, I am not in the shot because I cannot be seen, silly.  Jeez.  What do you think?  I’m no amateur.  Neither is the rest of the filming crew of three guys and one gal crammed into the master bedroom.  They are quiet as church mice while recording every squeak and moan of the live sex show in their midst, for Christ’s sake.

Shucks, even that stuck in the mud, Son of God, would not be caught dead in the spot of so much enthusiastic fornication.  I glance at my fusee pocket watch to confirm another hour has floated by in the forgetful sea but don’t mind it.  The sinful ministrations of this sexy couple are quite a warm-up, which constitutes one’s root to throb or box to sog. 

Some things never change, and I do find that even I can get caught up in nostalgia when the mood strikes.  However, back to the topic at hand.  Everyone must earn a living.  Who am I to judge?  Truth be told, sex sells about as much as it kills.

I chuckle at my own little funny in a dry turn.  That causes the make-up girl to shiver, who appears as bored as I feel.  She glances around her almost as if she can detect that I stand near enough to reach out and touch her arm.  For the first time since my arrival, I notice her eyes exhibit the color similar to frosty sea foam.  The young woman slouches to a height that never reaches my shoulder.  When the make-up girl glances around and stops in my vicinity, her eyes widen, and her back straightens. 

The make-up girl wears glasses too large for her face and no adornment of color to spruce up herself.  Unremarkable, a bit oily and tired, sums up her face.  A baggie sweater and a long denim skirt obscure her figure.  On her feet are not even attractive kitten heels like Brianna showing off lovely painted toes but ugly clogs with unflattering ankle socks.  This induces me to think of a schoolgirl instead of a grown woman like the one who fakes her loud pleasure with Ian. 

It’s true that if humans could see me, well, let’s just say, I would clear the room filled with bright lights and boom over the king-size bed in a hurry.  It will not matter that the stud banging Brianna has a huge rod made famous in the 50 movies he’s starred in or that Miss Skye's cock holster has been stretched by the best in her field for the last four and a half years.  All three camera guys, the sound guy, and the make-up lady would run for the nearest exit, screaming louder than Brianna. 

No, I don’t offend the nose, and I’m no pale man.  That would assume that I choose the form of a man, of course.  Hmm, there was that whole 16th century period where I rather enjoyed the reactions given by my choice of the female form.  It made my coming and going easier for some cases and not so much in others. 

Cleanliness next to godliness, you know.  I love my daily mineral bath in the astral plains to avoid any unsavory odors.  In fact, I may walk out of my backyard to my private access to the Forgotten Falls.  In the evenings after a long day, taking the other trail to the hot springs leading to Tartarus is excellent for a good soak.  All in all, the Land of Youth, where my sister, the Goddess of Darkness and Shadow rules, is quite pleasant.  I relish living in my sanctuary, where no one bothers me.  Even the souls I guide to one of the five kingdoms based on how they’ve used the gift of life, settle well in their final resting places.

I say use, but squander is more accurate, I fear.  So many souls waste what they’ve been granted with meaningless pursuits.  My appearance would, indeed, wallop stark fear in the living.  Intimidating and tall, I am not otherworldly.  Definitely not human, thank God!  She prefers a being that is misunderstood existing outside of creation.  The rules governing me are peculiar in comparison to the others in Heaven’s army of hosts.  It’s probably why Gabriel, Michael, and Raphael hate my guts to this day.

Okay, you twisted my proverbial arm.  Like those who are close to my kin that dare admits it, I like to watch.  Bird watching occasionally and binge-watching several seasons of exemplary TV programming on Netflix, Hulu, and Amazon Prime are in the top four.  Needless to say, watching is a part of my DNA if I owned flesh.  Nature would be more appropriate than the other term.  No one should be surprised by this.  It’s what I do when I’m bored, you know, to death.  Ah-ha! Couldn’t resist!

Honesty is the best policy, as some humans prattle, but they never mean it.  Since their banishment from the Garden for eating of that sacred of all trees in Avalon, humans have done nothing but lie, cheat, steal, and to what gain?  They lose the whole world and their souls.  Tsk!  Tsk!  Only I profit from the exchange.  I have a job to accomplish.

What I can tell you is that I abide by the truth.  Mine is that I have no purpose beyond the one tasked to me since the universe forms.  Think about it.  No matter what anyone does, the sands of time contained in Chronos’s hourglass never stop falling.  The one thing in life that is inevitable is death.  One may not exist without its polar mate. 

It will happen whether I’m here or not.  How’s that for another truth?  The surrogates, which are extensions of me, fill in any reality that my spirit rarely occupies.  Otherwise, this human realm of fragility would be terribly overcrowded.  As if this world isn’t already screwed, it's over-taxed with a CVS on every corner like Walgreens and Starbucks.  Humans are hyper enough and don’t need any more help from absurdly strong java.  If I must drink, let it be tea and a side of fresh biscuits.  Must not forget those, I would kill over the little short cookies, just to dunk them in a cup of English Breakfast.  Mmm!  I could murder a cup right now!

On the flip side, I’m always working from one spectrum to another.  I find I don’t like being restricted to one realm.  Mind you, this occupation of mine has gone on for eons.  Keeping myself informed of all the domains fends off boredom, which even I am not immune.

Something else of note, one may voice, is that I’m not strictly ambitious.  There are some among the Host who have multiple functions.  For instance, Michael is such an ass-kissing, overachieving pissant, and really wants my job.  He and Mo both think they can do better.  Ha!  What nerve! 

Now and again, I have to go all out medieval.  What does this mean? I pull out my magic hat, the Grim Reaper scythe, and midnight robe in tatters.  This is the sole way to remind everyone that the only one who personifies death incarnate and chills any who behold me to the last blasted bone by reaping the souls of the living to the afterlife is me.  No one does it better either.  Period.  Such a mic drop moment!

The pattern of my verve has suited me since I have known nothing else even when I was born before the dawn of time.  Without questioning it, though, I’ve found myself dwelling more in this finite reality of flesh.  On the surface, humans are nothing special.  Their lifespans are but a wink and breath to me.  Greedy, self-indulgent creatures are what I’ve found while observing them.  They think that they know so much when they have merely scratched the surface of the secrets to the cosmos. 

Lately, a solo question has encroached my world of order and balance.  It should not affect me.  It does regardless as I investigate possible answers.  Somehow with each passing millennium, I come no closer to resolution.  What is it, this mystery, I’m sure you wonder?  If I am granted free will as these flesh dwellers before me, made in God’s holy image, who incorrectly believe time is linear, would I act as aimless and lost as they do?

“Ooo!” Ian moans with a lightness, I believe, as his body flexes at Brianna's play.  Full lips close over the entire swollen appendage.  His groans and thrusting tongue urge her legs to quiver still.  No fluids are exchanged when he drills his jackhammer into Brianna's mouth until Ian's close enough to give her a genuine release she cannot control.  When they flip over, her spasms are encouraged by his three fingers repeatedly stabbing her oval office until she clenches on his digits.  Brianna flounders with her violent shaking.  He takes over, licking her arousal from his fingers before spreading Brianna’s cheeks and plugging his tongue deep in her crevice. 

“Mmm!  Mmm!” Brianna releases Ian’s tickler that she’s been deep throating to pant.  The look on her face could not be acted.  She does not gaze at him as she faces his feet on top of him.  His willy is her focus like it’s a piece of meat she wants to eat. 

Brianna needs no coaxing to deep throat Ian after the unexpected gift he gave her.  Something tells me that maybe they have gone off script, but that’s what formulates the Naughty Cinema into something so much more authentic.  Happily, Brianna reciprocates the pleasure that Ian’s given by running her long tongue over the smooth skin of his swollen shaft. 

Afterward, Brianna hovers her muffin over his wet staff and guides him inside for a reverse cowgirl ride that has the bed knocking all over again.  Yep, that’s why I show up this afternoon.  No, not just to see how much sperm Ian jets out of his cum gun, although I saw it go almost two feet before.  I once tried to replicate the circumstance but could not. 

Perhaps if my wiener is almost a foot to start with, maybe?  However, it isn’t.  I have no use for one.  No significant other or girlfriend keeps me warm at night.  It isn’t like I’m human or suffer their impulses.  Thank God for small clemencies.  Procreation, along with maintaining relationships for these fleshy beings, seems an untidy, nasty affair. 

Yet, I permit dalliances more often than believed.  I mean, why would that be bizarre?  Doesn’t everyone covet secrets to themselves?  Renders one’s situation more interesting, right?  Least of all boring, I should hope.  My curiosities, if you must know, take the form of wine, particularly Bordeaux, women with real bodies like I suspect the make-up girl covered up before me, and the occasional wet dream of a vacation someplace warm like Maui but never Sheol. 

That place gives me the shivers worse than Abaddon.  Ugh, talk about depressing.  Mo’s decorator should have been fired on the spot in the travesty of the Underworld and all its hateful levels of pathetic despondency.  Spending any kind of time down there will egg you to kill yourself; trust me.  And, my own expiration date has never been a blip on my radar, chiefly since discovering the savory dish known as Beef Wellington. 

Odd choices, I know, in support of shaking up the monotony, breaking the ancient rules established for a reason only God herself keeps close.  But there it is.  May I add that I discovered an excellent English pub, Hats and Bats, in the middle of the American heartland?  It is titled after the investors who happened to be a part of SWAT and loved their riot gear so much they name each piece of it.  Anyway, it’s south of downtown Dantes Creek, Illinois, that bestows the last of these ideocracies awfully special.  You see, Hats and Bats serves to die for Beef Wellington and the best damn Shepard’s Pie I’ve ever tasted. 

Irony would have it that neither Ravi the cook born in Sri Lanka who immigrated to the US or Elena the part-owner/waitress, a Cuban woman, were from the UK.  Ha!  Both studied abroad at Cambridge for a year and a half.  They missed the pub menu when they returned home and decided with friends on the police force to open Hats and Bats.

The reason I have been drawn here is simple.  Anything that mentions me even in passing usually gets my attention.  I relish not being forgotten, unlike the others among my kin.  Some say I have a bit of an ego where that’s concerned.  Hey, they would be right.  I’m more arrogant than I should be, bearing in mind how long I’ve been at this designation of mine. 

Don’t get me wrong.  My job can be a bit of a downer.  That is the irony of the whole thing.  The work I do does not suit my personality. 

Now, Mo?  Perfect acumen for the job.  Doom and gloom follow him, especially when he had that falling out with Her.  Oh, the Light Bringer he was as long as his hubris did not get in the way.  Us, old ones, predicted it was only a matter of time before he got too big for his britches.  None would have guessed that a third of Heaven would be cast out with Mo, however. 

That was quite the shock, that major shake-up.  Many of us wondered who would be next to get the boot.  And for what?  For these miscreants, I watch engage in their base nature and force their bodies to collide in limited gratification?  It seems so as the entire bed shakes with Ian’s every thrust between Brianna's legs. 

Oh, wait a minute!  Something has changed.  The fake screams stop.  There's grunting of efforts resulting from some deep diving.  Neither Brianna nor Ian appears to be faking the pleasures that they summon and allow to run through their bodies humming with motion. 

A real sweat, not one that is make-believe by the make-up girl’s spray bottle, glistens with the oils secreting from Ian’s body and rain down his back and crack of his tightly curved ass.  Brianna shudders beneath him and pants like a horny bitch.  Her hands dig into Ian’s buttock, drawing him within her.  He's eager to hump her faster and harder.  That’s what the movie calls for according to the script notes I spy on the living room table and storyboard of the planned scenes. 

Yes, these amazing and complex creatures who could be so courageous at pivotal moments of their history also could be completely vapid and shallow.  This caused substantial problems in some circles.  Those problems never affect me because none of that stuff ever does. 

My path remains unchanged.  I’m merely a spectator of how these fleshy creatures granted free will caused a war in Heaven.  Mo is too proud, and well, you know God, all high and mighty.  She refuses to give honor to her first creations made to serve and keep order with their bountiful numbers reflecting in any night sky.  Instead, she grants free will to her human creation and gives them dominion over all the choirs of Heaven.

Yeah, that’s the final straw that breaks his resolve right there.  It is far more than poor Mo can endure.  To him, the affront needs to be answered.  He abhors the lesser flesh sacks for their stupidity and lack of respect.  Further, they have not earned anything but are gifted what Mo covets.  Humans waste it like it means nothing.

That loathe and disgust brings with it more doom and gloom of a sort to Mo’s glowing personality.  Really, he just cannot get over it.  I’m not making this up.  Where Mo resides now in his own section of Abaddon suits him and his fiery passions to get even.  I just wish he would stop trying to interfere with my work.  I have no beef with Mo or God, for that matter, although the Supreme Being could let me enjoy a vacation once in a while.  This position of mine is so bloody thankless.

Yes, as I was saying, doom and gloom, I am not.  I rather like sunshine, fresh air, and kittens.  That’s right; I find the furballs rather cute and soft when I stroke them under my chin.  I have more than my share of them at home.  Strictly outside, of course.  Nothing worse than being called an old, smelly cat lady by guests and the occasional neighbor who drops by for a cup of sugar.  Yeah, I don’t have that many visitors where I live off the beaten path, nor do I give a damn what anyone thinks.  Actually, I do care like an insecure teenager, but only a smidge. 

While not being very social as I sit in my chateau with my Watcher’s journals chronicling my observations involving God’s creation, while not experiencing it like everyone else, I do enjoy the solstices.  They are my favorite as they mark the bloody battle my realm must face off to observe rebirth and death of the seasons.  The sword fights are quite exciting and even gets my juices going, as it were.  The armored battles are epic if not already preconceived.

However, the passage of time or my stance outside of it has made me rather, um, cynical.  I suppose you noticed that already.  Can you blame me?  Nothing for me ever really changes.  I mean I’ve heard it all when it comes to puns and so not gonna go there.  They’ll pop up eventually.

Do I believe that I miss out on anything?  Like the way these two porn stars are?  I breathe as heavily as the rest watching them lose themselves in the moment.  Neither of them acts like there is a soul in the room with them. 

How can you not admire their talent?  Brianna’s fake boobs sit so pretty and perky frozen above her slim ribs.  All is a work of art including the cute little tattoo of three daisies trailing down her hip.  Her head tilts back, mouth open wide.  The flick of her tongue teases the spearhead and tiny slit bubbling with pre-ejaculate.

Ian stiffens to accept her wanton act for one of his own.  She interchanges her hands along his heavy root as she spits on it.  Her mouth sloppily sucks one of his balls before she goes back to gobbling Ian’s club. 

“Come on, baby.  Gimme!  Gimme!  Gimme!” Both her hands loudly pump the schlong dripping with precum and her spittle from base to point as Ian whimpers.

Assuming their corporeal form is frowned upon, but a gift I exercise when it suits me like now.  I can’t help but take an interest.  It has nothing much to do with Ian’s muffled cries as he shudders when his white jism sprays Brianna’s face, and a glob of it lands on her tongue before she aims his rod lower to her perfect knockers.  Then back to her face for the rest of his deposit for her waiting mouth.  She sucks it all down and then latches on to his helmet.  Brianna deflates her cheeks like she wants to suck the life from him.  Ian collapses and moves no more, seemingly dead.

“Another mortal bites the dust.  Can’t wait for the next one,” she comments while taking her finger to the cum on her chest.  Brianna rubs it into her nipples before sticking the same digits in her mouth to lick. 

“And cut!  That’s a wrap!” the director/cameraman shouts with a big grin.  “That was perfect, my beautiful little cum eater!”

The make-up girl who wraps the famed porn star in a cotton robe does not look at Brianna or Ian, who hops off the bed and heads for the bathroom.  Jogging off naked, he’s had to piss for the last fifteen minutes.  The others gawk over the film in playback.  One man speaks about ideas on post-production if necessary. 

Miss Frumpy stands by the bed where Brianna has left her.  She looks straight at me with something like alarm by her wide eyes and mouth slightly ajar.  It unnerves me because it's like she can see me or something.  Can’t be right.  I can only be seen if I want to be.

Brianna grabs a tall water bottle from a cooler and starts to take sips. “Yeah,” she replies with the roll of her eyes.  “I bet that’s what you say to all your bunnies on the ranch, huh, Eddie?”  

He nods with a sparkle in his brown eyes, flecked with blue.  “Specially when it’s true.”

“Places to go, tools to suck.  Later, Vader.”  Brianna waves as she disappears further into the condo for a bathroom not already occupied.

The make-up girl stays put as if turned to stone.  No one but me notices that her gaze is fixed on me.  I move to the left.  Her head follows.  I move to the right.  She continues to track me.  How?  I did not allow this mere human to detect my presence!

Stranger things have happened.  Christ turned away the grave for Lazarus.  A peculiar yet sticky time for me.  And then Jesus did it again, pissing me off by upsetting the balance when he got up and walked out of his tomb after his crucifixion.  Other than those instances, no one gets the best of me.  I do not care who they are.  There are rules that even the Most High must abide.

When it’s time to die, your soul is mine.  There’s no bargaining or begging for more sand in the hourglass.  No one cheats death.  Everything that has a beginning must, in turn, have its end.  Reality involves order as a constant as do I.  What I learn very soon, of course, is that even I can face a fate worse than…well, you know.


© Copyright 2020 Amy F. Turner. All rights reserved.

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