Dominion by Bentley Little

Author:Bentley Little [Little, Bentley]
Format: epub
Published: 2010-06-07T04:00:00+00:00

He was on top of the altar. He knew that. And he was naked. And Penelope's mothers were holding his arms and legs and ... doing stuff to him. He tried to call out to Penelope, but his head was forced back and one mother held his mouth open with strong, sinewy fingers while another poured wine down his throat. He felt the hands of the others anointing his body with the blood. He gulped down the sweet, intoxicating liquid, swallowing it so he could breathe. Fingers grasped his penis, stroked it, and against his will he felt himself growing, becoming hard. From somewhere he heard the sound of Penelope yelling.

His head was let go, and he opened his eyes, looked down. His erection was huge, quivering, and covered with blood.

He wished he could shove it in Penelope's mouth and down her throat to gag her and stop all that infernal racket.

No, he didn't.

Yes, he did.

He turned his head around and looked into the trees at the carved god with his face.

What the hell was happening?

More wine was poured into his mouth. That was one thing that was happening: they were trying to get him drunk. He tried to spit out the wine, but it only dribbled down his chin.

God, it tasted good.

They were chanting, the mothers, singing, but he couldn't make out what they were saying. The words were all Greek to him. He giggled. Greek to him. Oh, God, he was already getting drunk. He'd never be able td| get out of here if he didn't concentrate on keeping " wits about him and trying to stay sober--

His mouth was jerked open again, more wine poured down his throat He gagged, tried to swallow, almost choked, but the warm liquid went down smoothly and he \ was filled with a pleasant lightness.

He understood some of die words the mothers were! saying now. Not all of them, but some of them. They were foreign, but he'd heard them before somewhere. In dreams, perhaps.

He realized that they were praying.

To him.

This wasn't right. This shouldn't be happening. He struggled against the mothers' hold, but they were stronger than he was, their fingers and wrists like iron.

They gave him more wine.

He looked out across the meadow. Others were gathering, appearing at the periphery of the field, emerging from between the bushes and the trees.

They were pale, slack-jawed, and nearly all appeared to be drunk. They were walking like remote-controlled zombies, men and women, some with flashlights, some with knives, some with dead cats or dogs, some only with bottles of liquor.

They saw him, waved to him, called to him.

He was communicating with these people, he realized, acting like some sort of homing beacon. He saw in his mind's eye all of the intoxicated men and women of the valley suddenly cocking their heads to hear an invisible sound, like pod people in a monster movie, suddenly dropping what they were doing to come here, to this meadow, to him.

The mothers let go of him, but he couldn't move.

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