Chapter 4

"How do I use the ring?"

Ornias had been very forthcoming on the subject of the ring's history. Virtually anything I could imagine could be accomplished with a thought, due to the ring's connection to the demons that Solomon had enslaved with it. By siphoning off a bit of their powers, each demon could go about its business while still living up the agreement that had been forged with Alexander the Great on his deathbed. But now, I needed to know the secret, the way to unlock the powers of the ring for my own use.

Ornias hesitated briefly; I knew it hated to give me the secret of the power, considering me to be unworthy of such a gift. Still, it had sworn to tell me, and I could easily enough slip the piece of paper bearing its symbol back in the freezer... a fate that the ornery demon desired to avoid at all costs.

"I have said that I have some control over those who wear the ring, so that I may keep the unworthy from learning of the way to use the power. However, that is the last resort. First, the ring has to choose you as a worthy vessel. As soon as I materialized in this prison of light, I knew that the ring had selected you as one worthy to wield it. It had molded itself to your finger, and allowed you to summon me, even though you did not know what you were doing. By doing this, the ring itself has reached a decision of sorts about you... that you are neither mad nor overtly evil, nor desirous of the ruin of mankind in pursuit of history or glory for yourself. You may yet pursue glory or fame or history... but not to the extremes of genocide or human extinction.

"However, when the ring selects you, it marks you. This is why Solomon, even when he gave the ring to me to enslave Beelzeboul, had no fear that another would use the ring. The ring can be lost, buried, even stolen, but it does not matter. From the moment it chose you until the moment you die, the ring is yours, and no other can use it.

"Look down at the back of your left leg."

Since I was wearing jeans, this request involved a minute of muttering as I unfastened my pants and pulled them down, exposing my legs. I turned my left leg outward and, looking down, saw nothing remarkable.

"Now... point the ring toward the back of your leg."

I have to admit, I hesitated doing this. In the tales of summoning demons I had read before, to allow yourself to be trapped or pulled inside the summoning circle with a demon was akin to signing your death warrant. I had no idea how touching my leg with that mysterious light that held Ornias at bay would affect me.

The demon snorted derisively. "Haven't you figured it out yet, whelp? As long as you wear that ring, there is not a demon of this realm that can harm you. You could step into a summoning pentagram stark naked, and no demon would dare touch you, lest the wrath of God Himself turn it to ash on the spot. Besides that, I am not really here with you. I am in some limbo created by the ring as a holding place for my kind, and though we can see each other and talk to each other, I could no sooner touch you than I could win a place in Heaven."

Though I could feel that he telling the truth, the instinct to not trust a demon was strong. Still, I swung the ring toward the back of my leg, prepared to jerk it away quickly should I feel anything was wrong. The light touched the back of my leg... and nothing happened! Ornias, hanging upside down in the ring's prison, shot me an "I told you so!" look, before it indicated I should continue to move the ring across my calf.

As the light touched the middle of my calf, it became apparent what Ornias had meant in saying that the ring had "marked" me. The light of the ring unveiled a tattoo, otherwise invisible to the naked eye... a tattoo that I had never asked anyone to put there.

It was a twin to the largest symbol on the ring, the one carved in four places around the stone.

"The mark of Solomon. It binds you now and until the end of your life as the keeper of the ring of Solomon. But there is only one way to activate the power. You must..."

"I think I can guess what I have to do, Orny," I said a bit dismissively. Ornias fell silent, perhaps a bit miffed that I might have figured out what to do without his instruction.

Reaching down, I touched my left hand to the place where the tattoo had been a moment before. Then I placed my right index finger on one of the symbols it matched on the ring.

I don't know what I was expecting, but I thought I would feel something when I unlocked the secret of the ring's power. Which is why I looked questioningly at Ornias... who had turned his back on me, still smarting from my interruption, indicating that it would be of no further help.

'Maybe if I touch all four symbols... ' As I arranged my fingers around the stone and pressed down, I heard a slight click... then suddenly, I felt a sharp stabbing pain in my fingertips. As I pulled my fingers away from the face of the ring, blood dripped back onto the metal; each of the symbols I had touched had developed a sharp point that had sprung outward into my fingertips, piercing the skin.

Ornias hissed its snake-like laughter. "The teeth of Solomon still have a good bite after all these years, don't they?" It looked back at me as I held the ring aloft, sucking my four punctured fingers as I did so. "Have you figured out what you need to do yet, whelp? Or are you tired of playing games, and simply wish me to tell you how to make it work?"

I glared at it, though I was really mad at myself for showboating when I should have been listening. "Very well, demon. I'm asking now... what should I do?"

"You have brought forth the teeth of Solomon, though you could have done so less painfully had you followed my instructions." It flashed its fangs at me in a mirthless smile. "Nonetheless, you have completed the first step. Now you must complete the final one.

"You must take the ring and drive its teeth into the heart of the symbol on your leg. Only then will the power that has lain dormant for all these years be available to you."

My first thought upon hearing what Ornias had to say was 'Why? Why cut my leg to initiate the power?' But, thinking a minute, I discovered I knew why. For, when it came to demons and power, one thing always seemed to be needed to close the deal.

Blood.

Blood sacrifice, blood rituals, pentagrams made of blood... the rites and summonsing of demon lore all called for blood. So why should this be any different?

Carefully, I placed the ring over the tattoo, its light easily showing where the "teeth of Solomon" had to be "driven." Knowing it would only hurt for a moment, I pushed the ring into the back of my leg.

For a moment, everything was okay; the pain in my leg was annoying but manageable. Then, light exploded behind my eyes, as if I'd just been hit by a massive uppercut delivered by the heavyweight champion. I only knew I was falling when I hit the ground like a bag of cement.

The last thing I heard before I completely lost consciousness was Ornias' voice hissing, "Sleep well, whelp. I'll see you in your dreams."

And then all the lights in my head went out.

Closing the door to the master bedroom, I stood for a moment in the hallway, deep in thought.

There was nothing stopping me from keeping Samantha except my own doubts. I had thought I was playing Boy Scout, doing a good deed in giving Sam the body he had always wanted. But I had not been prepared for how quickly the submissive inside that body would decide that I was the one to whom she wanted to be enslaved. More than that, I didn't know if I really felt like a deserved such devotion. If Sara's journal entries were to be believed, I had lost one woman because I couldn't be dominant enough. More than that, I didn't really know Sam all that well. Before the change, he was a friend, but not a close one. And now... her devotion to me seemed to deepen with every moment that passed. I knew that I would fulfill my responsibility to care for her, since I had been the one who propelled the switch from man to woman. But taking responsibility was different than emotional involvement... and I still wasn't free of my love, my desire for the woman I had intended to be mine forever.

I looked down on the shiny silver ring on my finger. If all had gone to plan, she would be wearing it now on her left hand, and perhaps we might have already set a date to be married. I had let the abruptness of the end of our relationship stall my life; I had brooded over it to the point that no other decision in my life could be made without coming up to an unfinished bridge over a deep chasm called Sara. And the only way that bridge would ever be finished was with answers. And since all the answers were still ahead of me, I again started walking down the hall.

Images... fleeting, flitting impressions of places, people I had never known... rushing through my brain...

... dust and heat... untold thousands of people working, moving heavy stone blocks... shouts from below me..."Look, it's the king!"... the workers stop to cheer me loudly, while an old man with a wise face says "The temple will be finished on time, your majesty"... a troubled boy in a dirty face, kneeling in the dust..."King Solomon, the demon plagues me at work, at home... he steals my food, my wages, he sucks the very life from my body"... a prayer to God... its answer, an angel bearing a silver ring with a black stone... the boy is brought before me again, and I give him the ring, telling him to throw it at the demon and then bring it back to me... the boy returns, smiling, triumphant, and hands the ring to me... I finger the side of the ring; where there was only silver before, there is now a symbol, small but easily deciphered - the name of a demon..."Who are you demon, that you plague a boy and not a man?"..."I am Ornias... I strangle those who live in Aquarius because of their passion for the women who reside in the sign of Virgo... In my transformations, I am a man who craves the bodies of effeminate boys, and sometimes causes them great pain..."..."I seal you with this ring, and order you to help build the temple to better honor God"... I summon the demon again..."Ornias, take my ring and find the demon Beelzeboul... throw the ring at him, and, when he is taken by it, bring the ring back to me..."..."So, prince of demons, you sit before me alone. Why is that?"..."I am the last of the fallen angels, cast out of Heaven by God... His power thwarts me in all aspects..."..."Take this ring, and find all the demons under your power, and bind them with it, then bring it back to me, and then you shall begin your labor on the temple..."... 14 number the symbols on the ring, counting Ornias, Beelzeboul, and the 12 demons that the prince of demons has brought under God's control...

The scene fades, blends into another... a dimly lit tent, populated with shadowy figures... I am the only human in the room, and I lay on some type of cot, covered in blankets... my body, once full of strength, now lies wasting and on the verge of death..."You are all agreed... the ring will no long summon you individually, but will instead draw power from you to do the will of its master... I have used that power to change the structure of the ring around its stone... to unlock its power, the one who wears it must unlock that change... Ornias will be the keeper of the ring's secret, a barrier to those unworthy to wield such powers..."... The tent, darker still in my eyesight, though candles remain lit throughout... I cling to life but only in shallow breaths... I hold the hand of a woman, speaking haltingly..."You created a destiny for me with this ring that I pursued without regret... but the ring cannot save me... it was you and your sisters that divined the great secret and bound the ring to my will... by my will, I bind you to the ring, now and forever... only you may choose who wears it, and by their own wit must they find a way to use it... flee here, and travel the world... by my will, the ring will protect you and provide for you, and you shall not age any further... when the ring-bearer dies, it shall always come back to you, waiting for your next choice... you chose my destiny well, and now you shall do so until time itself comes to an end... that is the will of Alexander, the king..."

Flying now, the images are mere impressions... Caesar, bedding the ferocious Cleopatra, and binding her to his will... Genghis Khan breaching the Great Wall of China... Cortez, masquerading as a god to conquer the Aztecs... Napoleon Bonaparte, in command of 10,000 troops, seizing control of a Turkish fort, all the while planning the coup that would lead to him becoming Emperor of France...

Abruptly, all the jumbled images from the past ceased to rumble through my head; in the sudden quiet, I could feel my body once again, could feel that I was seated upright, though my eyes were closed. Cautiously, I blinked my eyes several times, and then I slowly moved my hands and arms, as if to reassure myself that they still worked.

I was seated at a table, a rather nasty piece of red Formica with silver metal trim, right out of some roadside diner. The entire room was, in fact, a relic from another time, something out of a mod-60's obsessed nightmare, full of loud colors, old plastic furniture, and kitschy knick-knacks. In front of me on the table sat a china cup on a saucer and a silver spoon resting on a linen napkin. A man bustled in from what must be the kitchen, a steaming teakettle in his right hand.

"Oh, good! You're awake! Just in time for tea and biscuits!" He sat the teakettle down and looked me over carefully. "You seem to be in fairly good shape, considering. The ring often leaves its initiates in a rather dreadful state, since it refuses to let them regain their senses until they have some basic, ummm... realignment in their thought patterns. You, however, seem to have come through it in less time than most, and that is a good reflection on both your knowledge of history, and your ability to adjust to the unexpected."

While he talked, I examined speaker quite closely. It was obvious from his clothing that this was his place; his paisley Nehru jacket and flared pants fit the mod motif perfectly. So did his facial hair, a rather thick gray goatee that simply screamed, "I am a relic from the 60s!" His rather long, untamed head of hair and the reading glasses perched on his nose, combined with the numerous books piled on the table and the floor, only added to the kooky sense that this space belonged to him, and that it suited his needs perfectly.

Carefully considering a moment, I swallowed, then asked, "Excuse me... who are you, and where am I?"

Setting the tea down in the center of the table, he smiled beneficently, like a teacher pleased by a promising pupil. "You know, most of those who have been here have been a little rude when asking that question, so you don't know how welcome it is to hear some civility in your voice. However, I have the feeling that your question is going to test your ability to suspend your currently limited thought patterns and accept things that make absolutely no sense.

"My name is Merlin, wizard and teacher to the court of King Arthur. And this... well, this is Berkley, California, circa 1964.

"And you, dear boy, are the 12^th pupil brought here to learn how to wield King Solomon's ring." He smiled, enjoying the look on my face for a moment. Then he asked a question of his own.

"Tea?"

The walk to the end of the hall was short, and I heard voices in the living room as I approached. I stopped in the shadows to take stock of who was there.

Normally, there would be plenty of people in the living room at this time, as Thomas, or " Master Tricksie" as he liked to be called, would have brought some new or unusual toy out to demonstrate, first on his sub Richard, then on anyone who volunteered to let him. Tricksie was a short, wiry Sonny Bono-type guy, with oil-slick hair and a pencil thin mustache to match. He exuded the bluff heartiness of a car salesman outside of the monthly meetings, but once here, strutted around like a bantam rooster, waiting for his opportunity to take the spotlight. Richard was my height, towering over Tricksie by 6 inches, which I suppose is why Tricksie took so much delight in leading him around by his leash, or having him on his knees when sitting, or inflicting pain on his bare skin during the demonstrations. Not that Richard didn't enjoy it; he had confessed to me on more than a few occasions that the pleasure he got from Thomas' bag of tricks more than made up for the times when he thought Tricksie went too far, either in demeaning Richard with words, or actually drawing blood with one of his "tools." I personally thought Tricksie got carried away far too often, crossing the line from what should be done in front of others to what should be done in private too much.

As Richard knelt and Tricksie rummaged in his bag for his tool of choice, I spied one other person in the "audience": Mistress Matilda. She was a fortress of a woman, squat, rotund, seemingly as big around as she was tall; if you put tusks on her, you'd have thought she was a warthog walking on two legs. I didn't know if she was really a Mistress, or just liked being called one, since she never brought anyone with her to the monthlies, and never seemed to be interested in actually participating in any way - except to eat. She always seemed to be going back for plate after plate off the potluck table in the dining room. In fact, even as Tricksie readied his demonstration, she was eating a plate piled high with chips, pasta salad, and "pigs-in-a-blanket." Her face suggested that, other than the food, she was pretty much bored with the evening.

I suppose that, in the back of their minds, they must have been wondering where everyone else was. Thanks to a quick command when I had entered the house, that's where that thought stayed; if no one else was around, it did not seem overtly unusual to anyone with whom I had not otherwise come into contact. Instead, those people simply thought that the others were doing something else in some other room... and only Thomas was really bothered by this, since his star couldn't shine in front of an audience of one.

I had no real animus against Tricksie or Richard, even if I didn't really respect Tricksie's methods. Matilda was a different story. When I had come to the house the time before this, the time they had told me I was no longer welcome because Lord Ramon and Sara had said so, Matilda had not only agreed with the decision, but chimed in with a long rant about how I would be better suited to kissing her boots and being a toilet slave rather than masquerading as a dominant male. Thinking about it now made me narrow my eyes in annoyance. In my thoughts, I could think of no one who deserved less input into the decisions of the group than Matilda, whose only purpose in attending seemed to be to eat and look bored.

Of course, it was my pleasure to change that this evening.

Striding in from the shadows, I smiled at the three of them, and then sat down on the couch near Matilda... not touching, certainly, but within arm's length. She looked at me as if I was a roach that had just turned up on her plate... but instead of acknowledging my presence, she simply slid over as far as she could on the couch, trying to put as much distance as she could between us.

Richard acknowledged me with a nod of his head and a rueful expression. In his mind, I could see sympathy for the way I had been treated, as well as a bit of puzzlement over why I was here. Tricksie looked up from his bag, and, seeing me sitting there, had only one thought: at least two people would be watching his demonstration.

Giving Tricksie a mental nudge, he pulled from his bad a claw-shaped glove, complete with sharp-looking metal protrusions angling out from the tip of each finger. Except for the shorter length of the metal tips, it could have come straight from the prop room of the last Freddy Krueger movie. As Richard watched Tricksie strap the glove onto his right hand, I felt very mixed emotions filter through his mind. Apparently, he'd had the glove used on him before. He enjoyed the feeling of the metal as it played across his body, and, up to a certain point, the pain it caused as Tricksie slowly increased the force he used in wielding it. But, probing deeper, there was fear. Fear that Tricksie would again go too far. Fear that he would again draw blood. Fear that the sadist would not stop until he had done something too damaging to heal without scars.

Thinking for a moment, I concentrated briefly on Richard, making a slight physical change that I hoped would work out better for both he and Tricksie. Then I turned my attention to my companion at the end of the couch.

With the exception of Frick and Frack, I hadn't really changed anyone in a way that was truly against their nature, and, since they were already very self-centered, it hadn't seemed to really be that much of a change to anything except their bodies. However, looking inside Matilda's mind, I could see she did believe she was a dominant woman; she enjoyed all the aspects of controlling and inflicting pain upon submissive men, except for one - actually doing it herself. In short, she liked to have it both ways - enjoying the submission of men without doing any of the work herself.

She liked to watch, then go home and frig herself in the shower until she came.

Probing further, I could see she had never lifted a whip or a flogger herself; had never bound anyone; had, in fact, never done anything in the least dominating with any man. Of course, she had gone years without having any type of relationship with anyone. Riding her memories backward, I found that it had been college, in a frat house late one night. There had been a party, and she had drank beer after beer. Her friends had left her there, thinking someone else would take her home... until there was no one else to help her. Drunk and alone, she had been carried down into the basement, where the frat boys had stripped her, and then, while one of them fucked her from behind, another would fuck her mouth. There were 10 frat boys, and over three hours, each of them came once in her mouth and once in her pussy. After sleeping off her drunk, she walked the 10 blocks back to her dorm, her face still sticky with the dried cum of the frat boys. And, as she had showered, she had cursed herself for loss of control, cursed herself for being unable to make them stop.

Cursed also herself for enjoying it so much... and for wanting, somewhere deep inside her, for it to happen again. To be called a slut and bitch. To be used and degraded and fucked over and over again. To cum and cum and cum.

But, in her mind, the pleasure of the sex became equated with disgust and filth and lack of control. So she filed charges against the boys involved, as well as a complaint against the fraternity with the school. When the boys were convicted of sexual assault and the fraternity lost its charter, she felt power of a different sort, a vindictive flame that grew in her mind to replace the tawdry lust that she had enjoyed in the basement of the frat house. Soon, she had dedicated her life to actively damaging the finances and businesses of as many men as she could: she became an IRS auditor. Her bosses had long since stopped giving her cases involving women, because she never found fault or ordered prosecution; give her a case with a man, and she would dig and hound and harry until the man either settled or went to court - and most times, they settled.

Moreover, she lived a nearly sexless existence, thriving on watching a few dominate and many others submit, and imagining herself in the dominant role later as she masturbated in her tub, the shower spray massaging her clit while she rubbed herself to climax. She never had to worry about being disappointed by a submissive, or even having to lift a hand to try to control one, because she never tried. Her lusts could remain buried deep under thick walls of disdain and apathy for the men she secretly wished would fuck her silly.

As I was digging this information from Matilda's psyche, Tricksie had started his demonstration. He raked Richard's back with the metal claws, starting slowly, moving from light metal caresses to heavier strokes that left angry red marks across the skin, but drew no blood. Richard remained still, reveling in the sensations, but not fully in the moment, knowing that at some point, Tricksie would go too far and start to do more than scratch.

Meanwhile, I had begun to toy with Matilda a bit, making her think that she was hungry again, even though she had half a plate of food on her lap. As she started to get up, I asked her "Are you going to get something to eat?" She looked at me dismissively, but didn't answer. I continued, "You know, if you are, those pigs-in-a-blanket look good. Why don't you bring me some?" Looking at me like I might have asked her to strip naked in the living room, Matilda walked out... then came back a few minutes later with two plates. One contained some cookies and some apple cobbler, apparently for her. The other held three pigs-in-a-blanket, which she attempted to hand to me.

"I don't know what's come over me, getting food for the likes of a worm like you. I must be in a verrry good mood."

I didn't accept the plate, and she stood uncomfortably, fidgeting. It was obvious that she wanted to sit down, but for some reason seemed unable to do so until I took the plate from her hand. After waiting more than a minute, she finally asked quite peevishly "Is something wrong?"

"Yes, there is something wrong, bitch." Hearing the word bitch, Matilda's face twisted in a nasty grimace. However, to her surprise, her pussy suddenly felt moist, and her flush of anger was suddenly aided by a flush of arousal. "The baked beans are setting on the table right beside these weenies, and yet you couldn't be bothered to bring me any. What are you, brainless?" The look on her face turned from anger to confusion, as her cunt again tickled with the trigger of my put-down.

Despite the pleasure, her voice still held more than a little contempt. "And what do you expect me to do about it, worm?"

"I expect you to go back to the dining room, put some baked beans on this plate, and then bring it back to me. And be quick about it."

It was apparent from her thoughts that she'd much rather dump the plate in my lap and sit back down, but she didn't move a muscle. A trickle of sweat running down her face was the only external sign of the battle going on inside her head. Her normal train of thought: 'Stupid fucker, what does he think I am, the maid?' But there was a second train of though insistently through her brain, one that was backed up by the locked muscles in her arms and legs: 'I should have remembered to get those beans while I was there the first time; it won't take me a minute to go back and get them, so I can get rid of this plate.' Given the fact that she couldn't do anything else, she slowly turned around and started back to the dining room.

"Stop!" I said in a loud voice. Matilda froze in place, and then turned to face me. "Did you ask for permission to leave the room, 'Tilda?"

The expression of rage in her face could have ignited an explosion, but again, that second voice inside her head spoke persuasively: "There's no harm in being polite, and its nice that he thinks enough of me to shorten my name." She stood motionless for another minute, and then asked through gritted teeth, "Can I please leave the room, Daniel?" Almost as soon as she had uttered the words, her pussy spasmed in pleasure, and she gasped in shocked surprise.

"Leave already," I said dismissively, smirking at her. She hurried away, distracted a bit by the pussy juice threatening to spill out around the elastic grasp of her panties.

When she came back the next time, both hands were firmly clasped around my plate; in addition to the beans, she had placed two rolls and a piece of fried chicken. She hurried to stand in front of me, holding the plate like an offering. I pretended to look it over, while probing her mind. The new voice in her head continued to work on her, not letting her move unless she did things the way it said, adding just a bit of pleasure to the act when she complied. She couldn't understand why she was having such a hard time ignoring what I was telling her to do, but she rationalized it by telling herself she was bored and it was a way to pass the time.

I looked up at her and raised my eyebrow slightly, then sat back on the sofa and said nothing. I swear I saw her upper lip quiver when she said "Is something wrong, Daniel?"

"Do you see something missing from this plate, girl? Something important? Look closely!"

She scanned the plate, looking for something obvious, while I kept her mind slightly befuddled so that she couldn't think clearly. Finally, near tears, she shrugged her shoulders in defeat.

"Is there a fork on this plate? How am I supposed to eat these beans, with my hands?"

One little tear spilled over onto her cheek, as the new little voice inside her head criticized her for being such a thoughtless, careless girl. But then, the voice said that, if she hurried, maybe I might forgive her. She thought for a moment, then tilted her head forward slightly and asked, "Daniel, may I please leave the room?"