#summoned

You sat on the lawn. Humming cicadas filled the thick, early evening air. Something tall, cold, and very alcoholic in your hand. It might have a name, you don't know it. What's important is it's keeping the worst of the heat off. An identical house to yours stood across the road. An identical lawn out front, flanked by yet more carbon copies. Wooden-framed detached properties each with their own quarter acre of lawn to mow and maintain upon pain of a rat-faced septuagenarian inspecting your garden with a ruler.

Your own little slice of Suburban hell, nestled amongst thousands of others.

Something changed in the buzzing around you. A deep, basal note rumbling from the sky. You looked up from your book, the sky was as cloudless as it had been all week. Clear and inky blue in the fading daylight. It definitely wasn't thunder. Neither was it the wind whipping your hair around your head. You stood. A gale whirling around you without stirring a single blade of grass. The air becoming charged, every hair on your arms and head standing on end.

The rumble became a roar. Whirling winds howled around you.

A flash. A bang.

Gone was the summer heat, the fading daylight, the grass underfoot. You fell through blackness. Perfect dark after the evening light. Not even stars to orient yourself. Just the stomach-turning weightlessness of freefall.

Until it wasn't. You landed like a feather, a cold stone room lit by flickering torches. You looked around, masked men stared at you from the edges of the room. A chalk sigil decorated the ground where you stood, extinguished candles spaced around the rim.

“Wait.” You'd never been into occultism, but you're not quite that dense “Have I been summoned? Like with a spell or some shit?”

One of the men, the one with the most ornate mask, decorated with horn and ivy, stopped forward “Behold! The first supplicant chosen by the Great Virgil!” He gestured to a statue behind you, a woman rendered in gold, one hand buried in her breast, the other buried between her legs. Some plumbing kept a thin flow of liquid dripping from the intricately modelled labia, her propped-up leg exposing them to the viewer.

Pretty gauche, all told.

You couldn't stop the laugh. A short, half-choked snort as you turned back to the man. “Alright. Fun’s over. I have no idea how you pulled off the special effects but I'm not buying it. How the hell are you planning on getting her past the censors either? Not exactly daytime TV” you gestured to the statue.

Nobody else seemed amused. The men took a step forward. Four of them in total, including Mr. Fancy Mask.

Fancy Mask spoke again “In this, the turn of the seasons, we ask Virgil for prosperity. We ask Virgil for a strong harvest. We ask Virgil that our seeds find root, and that the ground be fertile.” He raised his hands. A staff appeared in one, levelled to point directly at you. “We take this offering, in thy name. Let the ceremony begin!” His arms raised again.

The men dove on you.

They wrestled you to the ground, kicking over candles to clatter on the ground, tearing at your clothes and pinning your limbs to the cold, hard tiles. You tried to wrench your limbs away from them, straining muscles burning with exertion.

It was no use. One on each side, holding you down, spreading your limbs over the circle on the ground. Chalk dust staining their robes, only their eyes visible under the masks, flicking between your face, and the still-standing cultist looming over you. His robes parted in the front, revealing the lower half of his torso and the lack of any underwear. He fell upon you, his body weighing you down. Holding his cock in one hand, propping himself up with the other, he thrusted against you.

Without any preparation, he wasn’t making much progress. You were dry as a bone, and being held down wasn’t doing anything for you. That didn’t do anything to curb his enthusiasm, and before long his panting turned to grunting, the head of his cock rubbing between your folds without penetrating. He held himself against you for a moment, hips shaking. Hot cum painted your entrance, thick and sticky, barely getting inside.

He stayed a moment, whispering something under his breath. Then he switched places with another cultist, holding down your ankle while the next man took position. The next one pushed against you, using the slick load of cum to bury himself inside. You grit your teeth, struggling anew against the weight of the men.

Above you, overseeing it all, the statue stood.

Clamping a hand over your mouth, the man violated you. Burying himself in your cunt, staring into your eyes. Cold blue eyes, the only part of his face you could see, twisted with desire and intent. His movements were forceful, driving into you with little regard to your comfort. Hips slapping against yours. Cock driving into the soft flesh of your cunt, the little lubrication provided by the first man not doing much to ease the friction. Again, his heavy breathing became hinged with vocalisations, wordless expressions of proximity. The thrusting became erratic, faster and rougher before he hilted himself in you. You could feel his manhood twitching inside you, warmth spreading from the tip as he left his seed in you.

Again, muttered words before he pulled out and switched places. Again, another man taking you. The lubrication of his fellow’s cum making it easy to slide into your stretched-out hole. He pushed his fingers into your mouth, so deep it made you gag. Every sound of discomfort or strain that escaped you made him throb inside you. Every whine or sob is greeted by a stinging slap across your face.

By the time he was done, you were covered in bruises. Your body ached from exertion. By the time they let go you didn't have the energy to struggle any more. The man in the fancy mask said something, you didn't hear what.

The statue stared down at you. Hand buried almost to her wrist inside herself. Glistening. Wet. Golden. Serene.

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