Naked, on top of a crumbling castle tower, gazing down on leafless winter woodland, with another’s hand around my throat — this was not how I had envisaged the night ending.

“Choose, Christian,” he urged. His words drifted past my face like smoke in the frozen air, blood pounding in my ears. I knew what I would say.

But this isn’t a good time or place to begin. A better time is four hours earlier, down below. In the pit.

Sweaty male bodies crashed into mine, knocking me off balance. A rough shove from the side was all that prevented me from falling, sending me between another two bodies instead. I steadied myself against the heaving back in front of me, brushing my long hair out of my face and wincing from the bruise I had received from a spiked gauntlet between the ribs on the way past.

Height of bad mosh manners, there, I thought, wearing spikes in the pit!

This audience did not seem too concerned with etiquette — or empathy. To avoid testing this observation to destruction, I threw my shoulder to the right to meet the chest of the next assailant, bouncing us apart again, and surrendered my soul to the music.

Blast beats — those nearly impossibly fast, alternating snare and bass drum hits — echoed on the bare stone walls and vaulted ceiling. Demonic shrieks and discordant tremolo riffs serrated the air. The sickly sweet stench from the ring of decaying goats’ heads impaled on poles at the front of the stage mingled with the incense smoke from the censers hanging above them, lying like a putrid blanket over the more usual gig smells of sweat, beer and vodka.

Flames from torches in sconces on the walls and pillars, candles and oil lamps hanging from the ceiling, in addition to more impressive pyrotechnics around the musicians, bathed everything in a pale orange glow. The only obvious intrusion of technology younger than two hundred years was the presence of the guitar amplifier stacks, turned up to eleven.

It was glorious! Everything I imagined a truly underground black metal gig would be! ‘Cult as fuck’ was the phrase that kept running around my head and making me grin like an idiot in delight. Even the venue was literally underground, in the crypt of a half-ruined castle, and there was no way it was legal. The prevalence of naked flames had to be against every fire safety law in existence, there was just one exit, and alcohol was being served in glass vessels with no regard for the danger that posed when the ‘dancing’ style primarily consisted in throwing yourself at a random stranger, fists flailing.

Illusions I had started to form that I had found my rhythm in the chaos were knocked out of me by a boot colliding with my skull, sending me stumbling to the edge of the crowd. Slightly concussed, I lost my footing and crashed into a solid wall. A solid wall of muscle.

Muttering apologies, I attempted to step away, but my feet tangled themselves. An arm shot out and caught me, saving me from an unpleasant landing on the glass-strewn ground. Still dazed from the kick, I looked up at my rescuer. Then up some more. Being slightly less than average height, it was not unusual for me to have to look up a bit when meeting others, but this guy was over two metres tall.

Our eyes locked.

That in itself was odd at a black metal gig — I had been avoiding any eye contact since arriving. It was doubly ironic that with a name like ‘Christian’ I should gravitate to the subgenre of rock most opposed to that religion in its aesthetics, yet the fact I loved other men, as well as women, was as unacceptable here as in the church of my parents. For my own safety, I did not think it wise to make my sexual preferences obvious in a scene notorious for its tolerance of the far-right, and in which members of some of the most revered bands had murdered men for being gay.

My senses began to return though, and I was sure that the brown eyes I was looking into were not the slightest bit hostile. Quite the opposite — intense, but definitely friendly. Gradually, my perception widened to take in the face that held them. Handsome, with defined cheekbones, an aquiline nose and full lips framed by black facial hair trimmed in a neat goatee. Together with the thick eyebrows and bald or shaved head, he resembled a much hotter version of Anton LaVey — admittedly not a particularly original look in this scene, but he was certainly pulling it off well.

His magnificent body that dwarfed my own slim build explained my initial impression of having hit a wall. He rippled with muscle of a sort that you could tell was for use rather than for show, like a mixed martial artist or middleweight boxer, his sleeveless black t-shirt and tight leather pants accentuating rather than hiding it. Unusual, swirling tattoos coiled around both arms all the way to his hands, with no symmetry, letters or other images, just thick lines tapering to points wherever they ended, overlapping each other. They continued up over his neck, and maybe even further, as one continuous work rather than one added to over time.

I wonder if they cover his chest, too?

Oh, how I wanted to know the answer to that question! My cock started rising at the images that conjured, making me blush. The friendly hunk raised one eyebrow, and smiled in a way that told me he knew my thoughts and was flattered. In relief, I let out a breath I had not realised I was holding, and then glanced around to make sure no one else had seen this secret exchange, but all attention focused on the stage.

“Ready?” mouthed my new companion, with eyebrows raised, indicating the mosh pit. I realised all pain and bleariness from my earlier mishap had gone, and I really did want to get back in. This was not the occasion for a gay date, and the music was exactly what I had hoped for over the past month, so I nodded and was thrown back into the throng.

After the band finished, and staying alive amongst pinballing bodies no longer dominated the parts of my brain not marvelling at an unknown artist playing such an excellent interpretation of classic black metal, I immediately searched for my tall dark stranger. When I found that he was no longer standing sentinel on the sidelines, my social awkwardness came flooding back to replace the exhilaration of the mosh.

A sudden realisation that my clothes were not particularly ‘metal’ exacerbated this self-consciousness. Other than my long, luscious, light brown locks that would make a shampoo model envious and a black Venom t-shirt, my jeans, Converse and hoodie looked mainstream indie rock next to all the leather, boots and spikes. No matter how heavy my taste in music got, that style never felt me, so I did not attempt it.

The preponderance of t-shirts advertising the more unsavoury acts of the scene increased my general anxiety once I started noticing them. It was not so much the ones for the notorious Norwegian one-man band that worried me — you always find a handful of those dickheads at any gathering of fans of extreme metal. It was all the others with illegible logos incorporating not so subtle Nazi symbols, from their favourite number eighty-eight to black suns and worse, rather than the more comforting pentagrams and inverted crosses of my favourite albums. Some of the logos didn’t even look like they were for metal bands — not something I usually cared about, but those wearing them appeared to be skinheads.

What the fuck have I got myself into? I wondered, picking my way past chatting groups and glaring loners. Some kind of secret white power convention?

Careful not to attract attention, I moved in the direction of the bar, and that was where I saw my saviour. He was stood at the side of the bar, drinking wine. I hung back, shyness of talking to someone new, especially someone as beautiful as this, battled with the growing feeling that he might be my one ally in this cesspool of bigotry. Yet even that well was poisoned, as I became ever more paranoid that someone would detect my attraction for this man.

My gaze kept being pulled towards him, though, no matter how hard I tried. He noticed me and beckoned to me when I couldn’t stop staring. Someone brushed past behind me, pushing me forwards, though when I turned I saw no one close. It would look weird to run away now, so I closed the remaining distance.

“Would you care to join me in drinking a toast to my god?” the man asked in a deep, melodious voice that carried the faint trace of a foreign accent I couldn’t quite identify, pouring me a serve of crimson liquid.

“Sure,” I replied, slightly thrown by this unexpected greeting, and tucking my hair behind my ear nervously. “Who is your god?”

There was a long pause, during which the man stared at me, unblinking, running his fingers up and down the stem of the wineglass in a suggestive manner. “Baphomet,” the answer arrived at last, and then he slowly raised his glass to sip the wine. As he lowered it, the unblinking stare continued long enough for me to begin believing he was serious, when he cracked into a grin. I returned the smile with relief.

“You almost had me going there,” I said.

“I can be a little cruel sometimes, but I thought you might appreciate it, Christian. My name is Hashim.”

“Pleasure to meet you,” I said, shaking his hand, the electricity from the firm grip silencing the question I had been about to ask — How did you know my name? “So, ‘to Baphomet,’ was it?”

“Yes, to Baphomet!” We clinked glasses and drank. Liquid gold poured over my astonished tastebuds. I was not a sommelier by any standard, but I had drunk enough wines to know this one must be expensive.

“What is this?” I asked.

“It is a ten-year-old blend of Syrah, Grenache and Mourvedre from a small winery near my home village.”

“And where is that?”

“The Bekaa Valley, Lebanon, although I have not lived there for twenty years. I left when I was about your age.”

We were stood below an oil lamp, and now that I was aware of his origin, I noticed that his skin, whilst bronze in the poor light, was considerably darker than that of anyone else there. I did some maths, but the number I came up with did not seem to match his flawless complexion.

“So, you’re forty-six?” I expected denial and a confession that he thought I was close to sixteen.

“Oh, then when I was exactly your age. That was only a guess.”

I found that difficult to believe, given that I was still asked for ID whenever I went to a pub — always being clean-shaven probably didn’t help me there. However, the accompanying smile, highlighting gorgeous laughter lines, quashed the unease I was developing about how much knowledge he had of me. For a while, we chatted, ever-growing sexual tension between us forcing those simmering worries aside, until a pause was reached in the conversation.

The next group had come on, but neither of us budged. Whilst the previous act’s style had been strictly for hand-to-hand combat, from the first chord I could tell that this was not a band for moshing; this was a band for standing around and staring into the abyss. Treble-heavy distortion filled the room with repetitive, hypnotic riffs. I almost slipped into a trance where we stood watching the crowd, until I noticed that Hashim’s expression had turned sour.

“Nazis,” he said, spitting it out. “I hate these guys.”

I mumbled agreement, and then recognised the quote and laughed.

“Okay, Indiana,” I said, “where’s your whip to drive them out?”

“I can show you my whip later,” he replied with a smirk that made my heart skip a beat and triggered a stirring in my loins. “Some of these gangs deserve more than just a whipping. You see them over there?”

He indicated a group of particularly unhealthy young men with greasy hair. Like most basement-dwelling keyboard race-war warriors, they looked about as dangerous as a mouldy sponge — no chance of being hurt in a physical confrontation, but you might catch something from the lack of hygiene.

“Them? They’re idiots, yes, but—”

“They specialise in doxing left-wingers and transgender people,” he interrupted. “At least five murders have resulted that I know of. And those three, they’re foul.”

He nodded towards a trio in the corner — two skinheads and one angry guy with a haircut I thought of as ‘Hitler hipster’ — the weird one a bit like a crew cut but longer hair on top so it could sweep across the forehead in the fashion of the former Führer. That may have been the intention, though, in reality, it made him look like an ugly failed eighties pop star.

“What have they done?” I enquired out of morbid curiosity.

“Murdered at least eight people like you and I, men who like men.” So I hadn’t been misreading those signals, I thought, then realised mine must have been even more obvious than I had feared. Hashim continued, “The non-skinhead is a cop who covers for them. I could go on listing the vile deeds of each person present — including the juicy Viking types you’ve been trying not to ogle — but it would turn both our stomachs.”

“Why are they all here?” This information was not helping me feel particularly comfortable.

“This event was designed specifically to attract them,” he answered, with a tone of regret. “We need this filth tonight.”

“Who is ‘we?'”

“The Disciples of Baphomet. We organised this event, and created all three acts. That’s why you’ve never heard of them.”

“Really?” It sounded like a cult, I thought, but didn’t dare vocalise that opinion. “So you were serious about that toast earlier?”

“Oh yes. My faith in Baphomet is very real.”

“Isn’t Baphomet the demon the Knights Templar were accused of worshipping?”

“‘Demon’ is a name for a god you don’t like,” he replied, though showing no signs of having taken offence, “but yes, She is the same deity. Emperor of the Lustful Night, Immortal God of Love and Desire. Though She has been poorly treated by recent culture, We have discovered that He bestows powerful gifts upon those who worship Them and follow Their path.”

“She? He? They?” I was getting confused, and the wine swimming around my brain was not helping. I had already forgotten to ask why on earth they needed to lure a hundred of the far-right’s nastiest to an abandoned castle crypt.

“The famous image of Baphomet is essentially correct,” he explained. “You listen to black metal, you have seen it: a goat’s head, woman’s breasts and right arm, a male left arm and goat’s legs. The genitals are usually hidden by a symbol, but it is clear that They are an androgyne, He is male, She is female, They are both and more.”

“Okay,” I said, utterly bewildered by these metaphysical revelations. Despite my name and the hopes of my parents when they gave it to me, I could not understand religious sentiments, mainstream or otherwise.

“You are sceptical of all this. I was, too — I left my home country an atheist. But then I was shown… tangible evidence.”

“Tangible evidence of a god?” I tried not to sound too disbelieving.

“Yes.” He studied me, pondering something, and then appeared to come to a decision. “Would you like a demonstration?”

“Of what?” I asked, my mind still reeling.

“Of the power of Baphomet,” he answered patiently.

“Here and now?”

“Here and now.”

“Okay…” I pushed my doubts aside. The determination in his expression made me a little apprehensive, though I did not know why. Baphomet is just a cool image metalheads use to look evil, not a real entity, I told myself. A demonstration of the non-existent can’t hurt. “Show me.”

Hashim drained his wineglass, not taking his eyes off me, and then set it on the bar, his long fingers lingering on the rim. I hastily finished my drink when I realised that was what he was waiting for. He straightened and looked around at the other punters, none closer than three metres, then gave a nod to the two men behind the bar. When they nodded in response, I saw that they had similar tattoos winding around their arms and necks. Perhaps he isn’t bullshitting about the cult stuff.

Before I had time to properly process this, his wet lips pressed against mine and his tongue invaded my mouth. I had been imagining this kiss all through our conversation, so I kissed back immediately. Then, I suddenly remembered where we were and broke away, panic rising. He spun me around and held me in a vice grip, directing my gaze with a fistful of my hair.

“See!” he whispered. “We are invisible to them!”

“Wha— how?” I asked, not quite believing it, but acknowledging that no one was actually looking at us.

“The Children of Baphomet shield us,” he said, resorting to more cryptic phrases. “Oh, the scum will know, but they will not see or understand. It will make their idiotic, prejudiced brains uncomfortable. It will be very funny. Now, get on your knees.”

“What?”

“Get on your knees,” he repeated, tenderly but authoritatively, and my knees buckled and I sank to the floor.

“Did— did you make me do that?”

“I suggested it. The primitive part of your mind wanted it. Just as it wants you to suck my cock.”

“No way,” I shook my head, even as my hands rose to touch Hashim’s thighs, encased in those tight leather pants. “Not here. The Nazis will kill us!”

“We are protected, I told you.”

It was true, not a single person appeared aware of me kneeling on the floor in full view. I stopped resisting, though continued to glance furtively at the nearest group of neckbeards laughing over racist jokes, and moved my fingers up those powerful legs. They fumbled with the fly, the growing bulge concealed beneath not helping with either the mechanics of the task or settling my mind.

Finally, I got the zip open and peeled the leather down to his ankles. In the shadow of the table, I could see the same vine-like tattoos as his arms covered the hairless skin of his legs. Another check over my shoulder confirmed that no one had noticed the sudden appearance of naked flesh. Everyone’s eyes seemed to glance off us. Puzzled, I kept watching what should be my audience, whilst feeling my way up to his briefs. I turned back to their wearer, who smirked at me.

“None of them can see us, Chris. Go ahead, enjoy yourself. Forget about them.”

Incredulous that I was doing this in a room full of assorted homophobes and white supremacists, I kissed up his golden thighs until I inhaled the sweet scent of male crotch. The shape of the helmet pressing against the material was evident, and twitched under my gaze. I smiled up at its owner, and kissed it through the cotton, tasting it with a tentative lick. That little taste ignited something in me that chased my reticence away, so I tucked my fingers into the waistband of the underwear and pulled it down.

A gorgeous, circumcised phallus burst out of it, and I could not help staring with open-mouthed awe. Though not completely erect, it was already close in size to the largest cock I’d ever encountered in my limited experience. Looking up at him with renewed lust, I resumed kissing, but now using plenty of tongue, all around his balls. Like his legs, the whole area was smooth as only waxing can achieve — it made me a little self-conscious about my own untamed bush. Soft, loose skin gathered like silk and then slid off with each lick around the orbs. A moan of pleasure escaped my mouth as I started to lose myself in the moment, nuzzling my whole face into the aromatic mass of flesh.

Movement in response to my ministrations woke me from my daydreams, and I put more intent into my kisses. His organ expanded with the light touches I had given him, extending horizontally at the ideal angle for my mouth, until I could no longer resist. Eyes locked on his, my forearms flat on his thighs, I parted my lips and took him inside me. Tongue held still at first, the twin bumps of his glans gliding over it to the back, pressing against the roof of my mouth, and then I swirled around it in slow circles as I withdrew from it. Another moan escaped my mouth, the potentially dangerous audience forgotten. More blood pulsed through his veins, the muscles twitching, and his cock growing with my own, restrained though the latter was in my pants.

Hashim allowed me a few sensuous licks, and then with a gasped, “yeah,” he placed a firm hand on the back of my head and pushed me down further. Expecting it, I let the tip push down my throat, suppressing my gag reflex. In appreciation, I rubbed my nose against the skin above the base when I reached it and pushed my hands under his top, running fingers over a taut six-pack I longed to kiss. His cock hardened and lengthened in my mouth as I backed off, the grip restraining me relaxing to allow me to gulp some air. It sprung free, flicking drops of saliva at my face.

My eyes widened faced with its full size, glistening in the flickering light of the flaming torches. From bald base to shiny tip, it was longer than my face, and my fingers could not reach my thumb when I wrapped my fist around it.

“Beautiful!” I whispered, and then attacked it with renewed vigour, alternating between bobbing my head and licking along the whole shaft. Taking a deep breath, I opened wide and swallowed it again without prompting, although fully engorged, it proved more of a challenge. Two hands held me there longer than I would have of my own volition, but his expression assured me I could escape if I wanted.

With a push, I slid back, gasping, ropes of drool connecting me to this amazing dick, before sucking on the tip again, getting salty precum as a reward. My sloppy tongue drifted down, slurping each testicle into my mouth, one after the other. I brought my right hand down to wrap around the slippery rod above me again, loving the texture of it in my palm. Tingles of anticipation ran through me as I stroked the slick thickness, trying to comprehend what that might feel like inside me at the other end.

Fingers in my hair tightened and pulled me up. I smiled teasingly, my lips brushing the end of his cock, which gave a jerk even from such a gentle touch. Hashim was close, but I held off a moment longer before diving in for the final run. I licked around it, taking the bulbous end into my mouth, tasting more of the appetiser leaking from the little slit. Sucking more of him and pulling back slowly, I pressed my tongue up flat against the underside as he slid out, and then repeated the move.

He growled after the third time and pushed me down again. My view became bleary with tears, and I choked on his fat member. I regained my composure and relaxed my throat as he thrust his hips, fucking my face with wet gurgling sounds, using fistfuls of my hair to pull me to him.

“Aaaaaah!” he yelled. How no one heard that, even over the blaring guitar amps, I did not understand, but not one head turned in our direction. Hot liquid shot past anywhere with taste buds, flesh pulsing inside me. I struggled to break free, but he held on tight, more and more cum squirting directly into my stomach. Just when I thought I might pass out from lack of oxygen, he released me, and I jerked upwards, managing to keep a seal around him for the last couple of loads to land in a salty-sweet splash on my taste buds.

“Fuck, sorry!” he apologised, shuddering from his orgasm. “I couldn’t let go!”

I just smiled, swept my hair back, and swallowed my mouthful, trying to imagine what I looked like with frothy slobber cascading down my chin and neck, soaking my t-shirt. Leaning forwards, I licked the last drops that were oozing out of his slit, until he pushed me away.

“Come here,” he said, pulling me up for another deep kiss. Semen-tinged saliva transferred between us. Flames of passion ebbed into tenderness, our lips parted, and we rested our foreheads together. He stroked my cheek, and then his thumb drifted down to the outline of my dick straining against my jeans. “I would dearly like to address this now.”

“Do it!” I said, making no effort to conceal my need. “Fuck me against the bar! If no one saw us before—”

“No one would see us, no,” he interrupted with a smile, and bent to pull up his pants. “I’m glad you have such faith in the power of Baphomet. However, that will have to wait until after the gig, for I must go and prepare.”

“Prepare?”

“Yes. I’m on after these guys.” He pointed towards the stage.

“No shit! You’re in the headline act?”

“I am. Lead guitar.”

“Cool!”

Maybe it was due to learning this news or just the ebbing of my libido from the postponed climax, but my nerves were returning. I kept silent as he straightened his clothes.

“I’ll leave this with you,” he said, waving the bottle of wine. He leant in close and spoke straight into my ear. “Stay back here, and when you hear a song you recognise, leave. My siblings will let you pass, but you will not want to stay for the finale. Meet me at the top of the southwest tower.”

He was gone before I could fully absorb what he had said. Why won’t I want to stay for the finale? Who are his siblings?

I glanced around the room and, for the first time, saw the silent, black shrouded figures that stood at regular intervals. Nothing of their faces was visible, and they moved so little I had assumed they were props, perhaps based on Dementors from the Harry Potter series. Now I could see them shifting ever so slightly. Are these Hashim’s ‘siblings’? And what had he meant earlier about “needing the filth”?

I should leave now, I thought, run back to town! But I was rooted to the spot. I had to hear this last band.

The wait for Hashim to perform seemed interminable. Able to move after the preceding group had finished their set, I dashed to the toilet outside, feeling extremely self-conscious when standing next to bulky meatheads at the urinal due to the damp patch of saliva on my t-shirt. Relieving my bladder passed without incident, however, and whilst I still seemed unable to will my escape, at least my drink was there when I returned to my spot at the bar. Caught between neo-Nazis and actual demon-worshippers, I needed the liquid courage.

Suddenly, about two-thirds of the lights went out, and everyone focused on the centre of the room. Eerie Gregorian-style chanting began from the hooded Disciples lining the walls. Five detached themselves and converged on the stage holding candelabras, moving as slow as a funeral procession. Two held a pair of candles, the others triads. Reaching their destination, they placed the candles on the floor before them and picked up their instruments.

The chanting grew faster, morphing into a more complex choir. As it reached a crescendo, all thirteen candles were kicked over, igniting hidden trails of oil. Fire raced over the floor, and with a roar of flame and from the crowd, the rotting goats’ heads at the front and an image of Baphomet behind the drummer burst alight, accompanied by a strummed guitar chord. When the drums kicked in, and I was lost to the music once more.

It was something else, grim and evil in atmosphere, but far less abrasive than the more traditional acts that had preceded them. The lead guitar sound, in particular, was simply beautiful, dissecting the complex, unsettling compositions. Despite the shroud-like masks they wore, I recognised that guitarist as my erstwhile companion.

A slight pause in the set broke my meditation. I couldn’t be sure, but there appeared to be twice as many cult members as before. Then the band started playing again, the style more direct than the previous songs. A cheer of appreciation and recognition rose from the throng, and I realised it was a song by Bathory, the legendary Swedish act that any black metal artist worth their salt sought to live up to. I reached through my wine-addled brain for the name.

Oh yes, it came to me, ‘Sacrifice.’ Shit, a song I recognise!

“Leave now!”

I spun, searching for the source of the voice. All I saw were the ominous shapes around the room, calmly stepping forward, as the few light sources near them winked out one by one. A strong sense of foreboding filled me. I grabbed my coat and hoodie, and then moved towards the stairs. Two of the figures blocked the way. One cocked their head as if listening, nodded, and they parted for me.

The moment I reached the exit, the band reached the first chorus. One of the guards at the door held it open for me. Looking back into the room, I heard the singer scream the line about raising a knife. As one, the ‘Disciples’ drew twelve-inch blades and advanced towards the oblivious crowd, then all the lights were extinguished, plunging the room into darkness. I could hear confused yelling through the music, which continued as if nothing unusual had happened.

“Unholy shit!” I cried, and stumbled through the door. The Disciple on the other side shut it, sliding a wooden bar across. Holding the rough walls for support, I ran unsteadily up the stairs to emerge in the ruins of the great hall. It was empty, the roof gone centuries ago leaving it open to the winter sky. I walked fast, breathing hard in the February air rendered damp by the thin fog that enveloped the castle.

Which one is the southwest tower? I struggled to orientate myself. I arrived at sunset, didn’t I? Where had it set? Oh yes, on that side. Any other day I would have had no difficulty remembering that because the ruins had made a spectacular silhouette against that fiery orange glow. So I need to go that way, the other side of the inner bailey.

Below, the music stopped, leaving nothing to mask the sounds of mayhem.

“Shit, shit, shit!” I swore aloud. Who do I want to win, neo-Nazi death squads or murderous cult? Should I run?

“Oh sure,” I scolded myself sarcastically, “run off into the dark with either side after me. That would end well.”

And then I wouldn’t see Hashim. Why do I need to see him so much? I’ve never been this drawn, this addicted to anyone before!

As this internal debate raged inside me, my legs had made the decision and taken me halfway up the winding stairs to the arranged meeting place. The only sounds that reached me were the echoes of my footsteps on the stone. Emerging onto the wall-walk, I had a perfect view of the courtyard below, although the moon was barely risen, providing little in the way of illumination. I waited, stamping my feet occasionally against the cold, watching the low clouds dissipate, but finding some comfort in standing behind battlements that had lasted nine hundred years more or less intact.

Gradually, figures began to emerge — pairs of hooded figures, which had to mean victorious cult members, carrying boxes. Coffin shaped boxes. My eyes followed the funeral procession through the gatehouse, over the causeway to a line of trucks waiting for them in the car park beyond the remains of the barbican. I felt conflicted. I certainly didn’t want to root for the racist dickheads, but why should a group that so easily overpowered a hundred people for who knows what nefarious purpose spare me? Because I gave good head?

“It’s as good a reason as any,” said a velvety voice behind me.

I turned to face Hashim, who stood gleaming silver in the freezing moonlight. There seemed no point in asking how he knew what I was thinking; I had already worked out he could read my mind. It probably wasn’t difficult — my mind was so busy.

“Are you okay?” I asked him, experiencing a cocktail of relief and fear as he approached. “You have, um, you have blood on your face.”

“Not mine,” he replied.

He took off his top and used it to wipe the dark droplets from his face, then dropped it to the ground. I bit my lower lip at the sight of that sculpted torso, as perfectly toned as I had imagined and somehow more magnificent for the markings that snaked over it from his arms.

“Aren’t you cold?” I asked.

“No. I’m still buzzing, actually.” We watched the procession of boxes heading out of the gate below.

“Are they… how many people did you murder?” I asked, finally.

“Eighteen died tonight,” he replied, although I noticed he didn’t answer for him personally.

“Only eighteen? But there were far more than that there! What about the blood — and the coffins!”

“We had a, ah, ‘full and frank exchange of views,’ and some were less sanguine about their fate, but no more than that died tonight. I told you, Chris, we need them.”

“Why? And why am I here? I’m not a Nazi!”

“The answer to your first question is that the Children must be fed.”

“The Children? You mean you’ll kill them later?”

“No, we are Baphomet’s Disciples. None of us will kill them,” he assured me. “It is Her Children who need that kind of sustenance. Would you prefer we take the homeless to satisfy the Children’s hunger? Or migrants? Or babies? It would be easier for us, less likely to attract unwanted attention, and the Children do not care, but we do. We choose to give them those who make the world worse.”

“What are these ‘Children of Baphomet’? Why do you have to feed them?”

“They are the servants of Baphomet, Her eyes in the mortal realm while He sleeps. If we do not feed them, they will feed themselves. Indiscriminately. Would you let them do that?”

“I suppose not...” I decided to drop that line of questioning. I wasn’t sure I believed in an unknown, insatiable group of monsters, but I also was not going to shed any tears over the disappearance of fascist thugs. I had more pressing concerns. “You still haven’t told me why you allowed me to fall into your fash trap. Am I to be a meal too?”

“No,” he answered, looking directly at me to emphasise his words. “A number of innocents were lured to our trap, but we diverted them. All, except for you, Christian. Because I like you. And because I want to fuck you.”

My heart beat faster at his last words, and not from terror. Part of me wanted to run from this man who casually abducted people to sacrifice them to some made-up demon. Another, stronger part kept me frozen in place. I wanted him. I wanted him bad. He moved closer, and I knew this was my last chance. If I stepped away now, he would let me go, but I would never see him again. I took a step towards him.

Hashim pulled me into an aggressive kiss, meeting no resistance as he pushed me up hard against the ancient parapet. Sub-zero air bit my knuckles when I wriggled them out from between our bodies. In a few moments, my bulky jacket had been thrown to the stony ground, closely followed by my hoodie and sweat-soaked t-shirt. Adrenaline rushed through my body as the cold whipped my skin but failed to penetrate any further. His chest was like a furnace against mine, his lips hot brands burning a path over my stomach to my navel.

He knelt before me, and I saw by the pale light from the gibbous moon that those tattoos on his limbs did indeed continue winding up not only to his neck but over his hairless cranium, like so many boneless digits gripping a gleaming egg. The slow dance from the shadows of the clouds made the swirls on his head seem to writhe, reminding me for one disconcerting instant of the wriggling maggots I had glimpsed on the decomposing goat heads in the crypt.

As he undid my fly and freed my throbbing erection with a swift tug of my pants down to my ankles, I drew my hands to that smooth scalp, my fingers tracing the path of the thick lines marked there. Heat emanated from my lover, suffusing my own body with it despite the frost that crunched under my bare buttocks pressed up against the ancient rock. His blood pulsed in his veins beneath my palms. Is there something moving beneath his skin? I found myself wondering as I looked down at the twin stars of reflected moonlight twinkled up at me from the shadows. Then the tip of my cock brushed between moustache and beard and was submerged in wet heat, banishing all such thoughts.

A long moan passed my lips and I closed my eyes, dropping my being into the exquisite caresses my member was receiving. His tongue slithered all around the head, forcefully one moment then easing off at the last moment to avoid a premature end, and somehow circling the shaft with barely a flutter touching the tip. I didn’t trust myself to look down without coming, and gasped air that stung my lungs. The majesty of the night sky greeted me through the thinning cloud when I did open my eyes, and Hashim released me the instant that I did glance down, making me gasp, before I managed a weak return of the knowing grin I had received.

The reprieve was welcome but all too brief. Facial hair scratched roughly down my skin. My balls were sucked into that magical cauldron of a mouth, first individually, and then both together. Releasing them with an audible pop, he licked up the underside of the shaft and took my member between his lips once more, sucking more aggressively. When my cock head touched the entrance to his throat, I thought that was it, but somehow the orgasm hovered beyond the horizon.

“Oh fuck!” was all I could say when his nose squashed into the curly hair below my stomach, and then his warm tongue was sliding back and forth over my balls.

Had I not been hanging on the precipice of a climax, the bizarreness of the next act might have broken the mood, for the slimy muscle did not stop at the front of my sack but managed to reach behind them, lifting each in turn. The incredible sensation of his muscles contracting as he swallowed around my dick distracted me from the impossibility that was both my testicles being guided into that same mouth.

A little uncertainty entered my brain when that slick tongue continued its wet journey along my perineum to tickle my arse, triggering the latter to wink in welcome. Before this hint of something inhuman could assert itself on my consciousness, he pulled back with a hungry growl, regarded me in a calculating manner, and then bared his teeth.

“Aaargh!” I yelled as incisors closed on my manhood.

“I had you there, didn’t I?” he said a second later, with a mischievous grin. It had been merely a playful nibble to knock that orgasm back a notch. “You are safe tonight, I promise you.”

“You scared the crap out of me!”

“Felt good though, didn’t it?”

“Ye— Oh!” was all I could get out. Not waiting for an answer, he had started a line of his playful nibbles along my cock, then over my scrotum and thighs. It was a strange though not unpleasant sensation, and something other than fear ran down my spine as those bites worked their way up my stomach until my lower lip was held between his teeth. I kept absolutely motionless, knowing that the tiniest increase in pressure from Hashim would draw blood. Being at his mercy so completely was strangely liberating. The bite transformed into another long kiss, that amazing tongue pushing deeper than before, probing as deep as his cock had an hour earlier.

Suddenly, I was spun around roughly and bent over the stone, staring down a twenty-metre drop to the dark shapes of boulders below. My pants around my ankles hobbled feet my, increasing my vulnerability in such a precarious position. Before I could protest, teeth dragged down my spine to my buttocks, and then they were pried roughly apart to each receive their own biting treatment.

In an abrupt change of technique, he replaced teeth with hot wet lips that kissed in spirals towards their target. I moaned in gratitude when he finally arrived on my anus. Rimming was not usually my thing, but it was what I needed right at that moment. My dick gave a twitch when his tongue probed at my star and then pushed wetly inside.

“Hey!” I said in frustration as he withdrew only seconds later. I looked behind me. He stood, stroking his intimidating member. “Um, not that I don’t want you to fuck me, Hashim, but you’re fucking huge, so we’ll need some lube...”

He spat a mouthful of spit onto his palm and spread — it over his cock.

“This will suffice,” he declared.

Nine inches of hard manhood rammed inside me in a single, near painless movement. Or rather, with just the right kind of pain, that good, stretching pain of muscles taken to but not past their limit. Saliva was never enough, but this spit was not normal, as I felt no friction burn. However, I had no opportunity to ponder this new detail.

Good pain summed up the next few minutes for me. The thumbs digging into my hips to yank me into each of his long thrusts with a smack. The ache of my arms as I gripped the sandstone to stop myself from being scraped across it. The bite of his teeth on my shoulder. The tug of his fingers tangled in my hair, pulling me in for a violent kiss. All sublimated into the hot, firm rod, slamming into my hole.

Hashim grabbed my neck, not choking me, though he had calculated the hold to let me know he was easily capable of doing so. He bit my neck and ear, planting a booted foot on the battlements in front of us to give himself better leverage in pummelling my arse. Bites turned into a long lick along my shoulder and back up my neck, nuzzling my hair, and then teeth closed on my ear once more, though more tenderly.

Strangely, that nibble on my earlobe was what pushed me over the edge. With a cry that echoed off the crumbling edifice, I came. The instant my seed shot out to splatter steaming on the ice-encrusted sandstone, he slammed deep inside me and stayed there. I could feel him emptying himself inside me, intensifying my own orgasm, my whole body shuddering with each spurt, seemingly synchronised with those filling my behind.

Finally, the orgasm subsided, and weakness overtook me so I would have collapsed were it not for the strong arms that caught me for the second time that night. I sighed as tender kisses moved up my neck, the tickle of facial hair making me feel safe. Our breath came out in clouds, yet I was as warm as if I were curled up by a fire.

“You have a choice now, Chris,” he told me quietly. “Forget tonight. Wake up with a hangover, and regret that you got too drunk to go to the gig you had been waiting for all month.

“Or come with us. Meet a God. Ask to become Their Disciple, and what you felt tonight will be as nothing compared to the pleasure you will experience.”

“And I will be with you?” I breathed

“And you will be with me,” he confirmed.

I looked out over the castle grounds, empty now except for us. I sensed the powerful body against my more delicate frame, imagined that intense, handsome face behind me, and squeezed his still-hard cock inside me with my ring of muscle.

What kind of choice was that? I thought. Return to my dull, meaningless, lonely life. Or more time with him, to understand his insane, impossible, yet intriguing beliefs and powers.

His hand crept up my side, through the thin patch of chest hair and wrapped around my throat again, reminding me of how it felt to be in his power.

“Choose, Christian,” came his voice in my ear, the vapour from his breath filling my vision. This is where I began. I still knew what I would say.

I chose. Hashim passed his hand over my eyes, and oblivion blacker than darkness took me.