Chapter 9

Roberta smiled and reached across the table to touch Gina's hand. "Is dinner not to your liking tonight, dear?"

Gina stiffened, and her fork clinked against the plate. "Um, no, it's fine, Mom."

Roberta squeezed her daughter's hand. "You were only just picking at it, so I wanted to make sure."

"I just wasn't as hungry as I thought tonight."

Roberta nodded and withdrew her hand.

Gina stared at her mother for another few seconds, trying to see the subtle change she was sure had come over her mother since she had left for her walk that morning. Roberta's touch and her voice had the same tender, loving feel that Gina expected. If she closed her eyes, the illusion would be complete.

Roberta resumed eating her dinner at the same placid pace. Gina wondered if it were her imagination. The more Gina stared, the more her mother seemed like the person she had left that morning. Yet when Roberta raised her eyes once more, it jarred Gina again, like looking at an art masterpiece uncounted times only to now spot the ugly flaw within it.

"Gina, there's something I wanted to discuss with you this evening," Roberta said. "I want you to go to the school counselor tomorrow."

The request was enough of a surprise that Gina hesitated in her response. The pause let her push aside the immediate urge to accept and obey. "What for, Mom?"

"I want you to talk to him about what we discussed yesterday."

"Him? I don't understand. The school counselor is a lady."

Roberta smiled. "I've been told that there will be a special guest counselor for this week, and he specializes in your difficulty."

"My difficulty?"

"Accepting your own sexuality, that is."

Gina put down her fork. Her heart pounded, but she was not sure why. "But you told me to use my judgment."

"Now, now, Gina," Roberta said, her voice firm but gentle. "You'll listen to me. Your mother knows best."

Gina felt flushed. "Yes, of course, but ... wait..."

"I've decided that you need to explore this topic more for your own good."

Gina nodded before she could stop herself. "Yes, I know you want what's good for me, but do I have to tell him..."

"Tell him everything. You can trust him."

Gina shuddered. Her pussy warmed. "But will this be about ... about having sex with boys?"

Roberta smiled. Her eyes sparkled in the kitchen light. "Of course. That's what it's all about, as I told you."

"You mean giving myself to them?"

"Yes, that's it."

"And that's what this counselor will tell me?"

"You can trust him, Gina."

Gina swallowed and shivered. Her pussy ached. She struggled to collect her thoughts. "But ... b-but how can he..."

(You can trust him)

(You can always trust me)

Gina shook her head. "S-stop..." she whispered in a husky voice.

"The counselor is there for you, Gina," said Roberta, her smile broadening.

Gina lifted her eyes to her mother. They were filled with quiet, glistening desperation.

Roberta lay her hand on Gina's hand. Gina's pussy rose in unbidden pleasure. "You'll feel good about it, trust me. You trust your mother, don't you?"

Her breath a light pant, Gina nodded.

"If you trust me, you will trust your counselor."

(You can always trust me)

Gina failed to push it out this time. All she wanted to do was embrace the pleasure and go back to being her mother's good little girl. Good little girls did not disobey or question their mothers.

But why am I feeling this in my pussy? It never did that before. I just obeyed because I'm supposed to...

Her mind grasped at realization and missed, and watched it dissolve into mist as her pussy throbbed, a gentle orgasm flowing over her body like a rippling wave of warm water.

"It feels good to trust, doesn't it?" her mother asked.

"Yes, it does," Gina sighed in delight.

"Very good, Gina. I think you'll understand better what I've been trying to teach you once you've had a few sessions with the counselor."

Gina smiled and nodded. Her climax faded, but her pussy was still awash in wonderful wet warmth.

Roberta stood. "If you've had all you care to eat tonight, why don't you go upstairs? I can take care of the dishes."

Gina rose. "Are you sure, Mom?" she asked. She wanted to be good, and a good girl did her chores as her mother expected.

"Of course, dear. You should go upstairs and reflect on what I've said. And what I've been teaching you."

One of Gina's hands clenched. She paused for a long stretch of seconds. "I-I'll try."

"Try hard for me, Gina. And feel free to do whatever comes to mind."

Gina smiled wanly and turned from the table. She moved towards the stairs as if in a daze.

Is this right? Is this what's supposed to be happening?

She paused at the base of the stairs, then ascended them with measured steps.

This is what I should be doing ... but yesterday she said ... I should just trust...

(It feels good to trust)

Gina's pussy became warm and tingly once more. By the time she reached her room, she was panting again, her pussy inviting her touch. The thoughts she had resisted moments ago now raced through her head: images of herself submitting to another's sexual advances, of being teased into a frenzy of lust and need, of lying on her back and opening her legs...

Gina stepped into her room and slipped out of her clothes as she approached the bed. She shivered at the thought of a boy's cock sliding into her pussy, and for just a moment it felt real, her legs wanting to part to accommodate her invisible lover.

A thought from the depths of her subconscious, like a dim ember against the dark, manifested at the edge of her perception. Frantic but faint, a voice tried to cry out understanding to her from the other side of a deep fog of lust.

Control ... something ... mother ... controlling...

Gina fell to her bed and rolled onto her back. She spread her legs and sank her fingers into her willing cunt. She surrendered herself to her own erotic thoughts, writhing and moaning in obedient content, the thought forgotten.

The old husk of the abandoned church stood like a skeletal guardian watching over an approach to a long-deserted kingdom. Set back from a road to nowhere just short of what were the old city limits of Haven, its quaint nineteenth-century architecture was the first thing that once greeted arrivals from the old state highway. After the commercial interests had marginalized Haven's farming community, the port of entry shifted to the US highway that ran through the center of town. Thus when a rockfall closed the road just to the south and was never cleared, the church was abandoned.

Victor's boots crunched against the gravel, sand, and lingering mounds of snow. A small smile was etched onto his lips. This part of the road was aligned with one of the energy lines, the one that ran under both the old church and Gina's house. His powers worked better the closer he was to those lines.

He sensed Gina through the line. Or rather, he sensed the bit of his own essence within Gina's psyche. He saw it as a glowing ember against a velvet backdrop, now brightening as he extended his control through Roberta. Once it was strong enough, he would take direct command. Beside it, his presence inside Roberta shone like a lighthouse beacon, steady and sure once more.

Gina's light flickered, her resistance still manifesting. The ceremony over which he must preside that evening precluded him from assisting in overcoming it just yet. He allowed himself some irritation towards Terri. Had she not been a thorn in his side, he could have delegated his role in the ceremony to someone else.

Victor stepped past the broken front door. A patchwork of fresh planks and splotches of plaster covered the rotting wood and crumbling mortar in an attempt by his cult to keep the building standing.

He picked his way past the detritus and stepped behind the altar. He pulled aside a mildewed carpet to reveal a trapdoor. Victor pulled it open with a creak of ancient wood and screech of rusting metal, and was greeted by a low murmuring noise. He descended the ladder until his feet stood upon hard, packed earth. He lowered the trapdoor with a metal pole leaning against one corner of the alcove. The murmur became a chant, spoken just above a whisper.

"Quixla orgos ron'jessetha."

The Darkness would recognize the words. They were found in the Book that it sought. Victor had adopted them for his cult at its suggestion. The words meant nothing, originating from no known or ancient language. They had their own grammar and their own internal consistency, but they still meant only what the cultists believed they meant.

That was all Victor needed. Belief was his most potent weapon.

Victor entered a narrow corridor of hewn rock and packed clay lined with oil lamps glowing from wall niches. The chanting rose in volume until he could discern its mournful cadence, mixed with a rising excitement.

At the end of the corridor gleamed a gate of bronze bars, like the door to a prison. The chanting came from within the soft crimson depths of the chamber beyond. A simple wooden door lay just before the gate in the side of the passage.

He opened the door and stepped into a small room that consisted of only a closet and a mirror. He stripped off all his clothes, revealing a body broad of shoulder, hard with muscle, and firm with confidence. Despite the atmosphere of growing excitement and concealed desire, he held his emotions in firm check, thus his cock remained flaccid and dormant. He would allow it to rise only when the time was right, when he would need to consummate the additional ceremony Terri had foisted upon him.

His robe was waiting for him in the tiny closet. He slipped it on, deep fiery violet with burnished gold trim flowed down his body and swirled just above his bare feet. Emblazoned in inky black across the breadth of his back was the outline of a human head, the eyes downcast, its overlarge forehead filled with a stylized eye reminiscent of the Eye of Horus.

Like the words of the chant, the symbols were only a source of focus for the cultists, like troops rallying to a flag.

Victor scrutinized himself in the mirror as he tied the robe closed at his waist, the braided ends of the sash hanging down like tassels. He squared his shoulders back before heading out of the changing room and past the bronze gate.

Victor slid into a crimson miasma of burning incense lighted into an eerie fog by oil lamps covered with blood red filters under a vaulted ceiling. A wide carpet of midnight black ran the length of the hall, from Victor's feet to the raised altar at the far end. On either side stood the acolytes of his cult, robed and hooded men and women whose purple attire had deepened to a maroon-black in the dim scarlet fog.

Behind the lines of cultists loomed marble statues of naked men and women in various poses of submission, their eyes glistening from tiny embedded gemstones in the sepulchral light. Between them were more bronze gates, most blocked by rockfalls and packed dirt just beyond the reach of the light, but some led to tunnels that extended into darkness.

At the other end of this underground church, upon the large stone altar, lay a woman.

The middle-aged woman's naked body was spreadeagled, heavy chains wrapped about her wrists and ankles. She shivered with both the chill of the dank air and her own growing fear.

"Quixla orgos ron'jessetha."

Her body shook with a tremor that rattled her chains as the chant rose in volume.

Victor raised his hands. "Sentr'enthra tal'alkqua ron'valtra." Which, in the cultists' minds, meant: all shall give praise and worship to the Glorious One.

The chant stopped. The cultists bowed their heads, then their voices rose again as one: "Toph'sentr'enthra zanthas ron'valtra." We give our total praise and devotion forever to the Glorious One.

The new chant repeated, swelling with each utterance. Finally, Victor spread his arms in silent blessing over his flock. The cultists quieted, and turned as one towards him, hands folded demurely before them.

The touch of their loyalty and obedience was a like a wave of pleasing warmth flowing over him. He was their emissary, the embodiment of their belief, the representative of their god. He was the divine made flesh, infallible and omniscient.

"Renthi'mass'huthra ron'jessetha." declared Victor. Commence the ceremony of punishment on the unworthy one.

The acolytes turned towards the altar, and waited. The two figures closest to the altar, one on either side, climbed the dais and took position at either end, one at the woman's head, the other at the woman's feet.

The woman's soft whimper echoed into the quiet. As Victor began his walk towards the altar, her breathing labored, and cords stood out on her legs and arms as she pulled at her restraints. The two cultists by the altar stood as cold sentinels, inured to her distress.

Victor stopped by the side of the altar and looked down.

He had not been told who was being punished, but now a simple touch to the bit of his essence within her revealed her identity. She was Harriet Dennon, the one he had left in charge of the counseling group that served as the front for his cult, responsible for insuring that Victor's presence would be maintained in Haven even in his absence.

Harriet's dark eyes glistened and looked up at Victor in a silent plea for mercy. Her lips trembled with the desire to beg, but she refrained, knowing that the Glorious One would not tolerate such weakness.

Victor turned to his right, to the acolyte standing at Harriet's feet. "What is her transgression?" his voice rang out so all could hear. "What tenet of our sacred belief has she blasphemed, or ritual of our divine rites she has desecrated?"

The acolyte lowered her hood. "She has failed consistently to observe the proper sex rituals," said Terri Hollis. Her lips curled into a tiny smile. "She has gone three weekends now without attending the holy evening orgies that we hold to remind ourselves of your glory." Her eyes glittered, and she licked her lips. "She must be punished for her failure."

Victor remained impassive despite his disgust. Terri's attitude was most unbecoming of a cult member. Tasks such as this should not be approached with the savage glee he witnessed in her. Their motives were driven not by desire for personal gratification but by fervent belief in their manufactured religion. It convinced him that Terri had never truly immersed herself in the cult.

He nodded once and turned to Harriet. "Speak your mind. How do you respond?"

Harriet fought to get her voice to work. "I-I'm sorry, Glorious One! ... But ... but my husband, my children, I-I had to be there for them..."

"I always said, Harriet, that it was a mistake to leave your husband out of the cult."

"He wouldn't understand!" Harriet wailed. "He... !"

"He could be made to understand."

Harriet's eyes glazed. "P-please ... please, no, Glorious One, don't..."

"You will not assume more wisdom than I, which is what you do when you tell me what I should not do."

Harriet bit her lip and whimpered.

"Now, how old are your children?"

Harriet gasped, her eyes wide. "G-glorious One, you ... you don't mean to--"

"You are doing it again. I will not tolerate it a third time. Answer my question."

Harriet swallowed. "David is sixteen," she croaked. "Jenny is nearly eighteen."

"That is old enough to receive my enlightenment. They will be inducted into the cult within a month's time. Unless you believe that they are not worthy?"

Harriet's lip trembled. "I ... n-no ... they ... they are worthy."

"Very good. You will lead them to their sexual fulfillment."

"Y-yes, Glorious One, of course."

"But this transgression will not go unpunished."

Victor looked at Terri from the corner of his eye. A sadistic smile marred her face once more before she masked it.

Foolish woman, Victor thought.

Victor gestured. Terri raised her hood. Both her and the cultist at the other end of the altar proceeded towards a niche in the back of the underground church, the opening covered by a velvet veil, and extracted something from it that they cradled in their hands. They returned to their positions at the ends of the altar and held their prizes above their heads. Each held a small crystal bottle filled with clear oil.

Harriet's eyes glazed. She let out another whimper but did not dare speak.

Victor raised his hands. The cult began a new chant.

"Kethr'quixla nox'thrissa orgos ron'jessetha."

Harriet's pants became long, husky sighs as the chant swelled once more. Her body trembled, then writhed. Her eyes burned with need. Her thighs quivered. Her nipples became hard, raised points. Moisture oozed in her bare folds.

As Victor waited, and let his senses extend once more along the energy line.

Gina squirmed as her fingers played her pussy, her talent like that of a musician playing a long and intricate piece. No matter how much she burned for relief, or how much her pussy strained and ached, she kept her touches teasing and gentle, forbidding herself to crest too soon.

Her breathing turned to gasps and moans. She lifted her hips as if to meet an invisible lover, the fingers of one hand thrusting into her cunt like a man's cock, while the other swirled fingertips on her swollen clit in a perfect concert of mounting pleasure.

Erotic imagery slid and oozed across her mind, as vivid as the hot, slick moisture that soaked her pussy. They insisted they were real, conjured from the depths of her own psyche and not whispered as alien words of trust from a stranger. She felt foolish fighting against something that was so normal and right.

Gina whimpered as more correct and proper thoughts exuded from sexual fantasy: stop struggling; trust and obey your mother; trust Victor; trust the school counselor; accept yourself as a sexy, lusty girl that should be willing to share herself with...

"Uhhngg!"

Gina's hips bucked. Her cunt clamped around her fingers like a vise. Her orgasm reverberated inside her, and a euphoria swept her up like a rising tide in advance of the storm. Her fingers pressed hard into her sex, and she shuddered with paroxysms of sexual delight.

All was right.

All was good.

All was as it should be. As she should be.

(control)

Gina gasped and closed her eyes. She forced herself to withdraw her hands from her still throbbing pussy and rolled onto her side. Her cunt convulsed for a moment against the pressure of her closed legs, and a lingering fog of pleasure clouded her thoughts.

(controlling me)

Gina swallowed. She heard something again, but not like before. It was like...

(forcing me)

... her own voice echoing to her from far away. Gina curled up on the bed and trembled. Only insane people heard voices in their heads. The sane thing to do would be to submit...

(fight)

... to her mother's will. How could she ever have thought that her own mother could not be trusted? Listen to how confident she sounded, how...

(different from before)

... assured she was that she knew what was best for Gina. After all, she had been right about Gina exploring her sexuality. It felt so good and natural. She had even shown Gina the proper way to masturbate.

(not normal)

Gina shook her head. Of course it was normal. She wished the voice would stop. Everything would be okay. The counselor would see to that. She could trust him. She would do what her mother wanted of her.

Gina's trembling eased. She moaned in renewed desire. It felt good to trust. It felt good to obey. It felt good to...

(resist)

... to...

(stop)

Gina flipped onto her back, panting, her pussy hot with need once more.

Gina needed things to make sense to her again. Was she supposed to be just the good little girl doing what was expected of her? Or was she supposed to think for herself and decide what she wanted to do? And why was the question coming up in the first place?

The moment of limbo between the two competing agendas in her head illuminated a stark truth. Whatever had happened in her life up to that point had been a lie, deceptions reinforced by illusion. Where such an epiphany originated remained a mystery. The voice had fallen silent, but she sensed something trembling at the edge of her perception.

Gina let out a single, husky sigh heavy with want. The moment was fading. Her hands slid towards her willing pussy once more.

Victor was not happy.

Gina still resisted. For a moment it had appeared that his will had triumphed, a role-reversal effected that relegated her resistance to the foreign voice in her head. Then he could ease it out of her mind, and her own psyche would assist.