A Visit From Saint Michael

He looked around the room suddenly as if he had heard someone, or something moving in the darkness beyond the circle of light where we sat. His face was filled with fear, but then he seemed to calm himself and continued. "Then it was time for the second act. We unchained the girls one at a time and brought them into the center of the room where we had a padded bench and table and stocks.

"Numbers one and two were forced to their knees and made to use their mouths. Number one did not quite understand what she was to do for Marie, but when her head was forced against Marie's cunt and held there until she nearly passed out from lack of breath, she got the idea and began to nuzzle and lap. Marie remained standing with her legs spread and her hands firmly grasping the girl's head. When she climaxed, she held the girl's face against her sloppy sex for so long, that when she released her grip, the girl fell to the floor unconscious. We shackled her back in place facing the wall before she regained her senses.

"Number two knew what was expected of her when she was forced to kneel before Harold. She kept mumbling 'Santa Morty' even as he thrust his quite impressive member in an out of her throat. He, too, held her tightly against his groin as he spurted into her stomach. She was weak and wobbly as we put her back on the wall, but she did not lose consciousness.

"Three and four were destined to lose their anal virginity in this round. I especially looked forward to seeing how number four would react as I plunged into her ass. Frank and Sharon were obviously surprised when instead of screams of pain, she began panting and moaning as I buggered her. I had expected it, but they had not."

He gave me what had to be the most maniacal of his smiles and said, "There is a pleasure that comes from forcing pain upon an unwilling victim that many people do not understand. And there is a different pleasure that comes from forcing pleasure on an unwilling victim. But there is nothing that can compare with forcing painful pleasure on someone like number four. I knew that what I was doing was terribly painful, but she could not control her body as she moaned and writhed beneath me. She strained against the restraints of the bench as I finally drove her into orgasm. Her long, drawn out cry of release was 'Micky-choo-choo' and then some other words that were not Spanish. They were no language I had ever heard in any of my travels in old Mexico.

"Five and six were just fucks. Frank, as usual, didn't last very long, but Jane continued forever, driving her strap-on into number six until the poor girl was reduced to nonsensical babbling."

Another smile. "Then it was time for the second entr'acte . One, three and four were now chained facing the wall. Two, five and six were still hanging with their backs to the wall. The screams were beautiful until we got to number four. I was using a long, flat, single strand, flexible whip that looked like a tawse, except that it was nearly six feet long. I don't know the official name for it, but we called it 'the snake's tongue.'

"The snake's tongue licked at number four's body as I moved it from her wrists to her ankles and then back up to whip around her middle and snap at the tenderness between her legs. She was crying out in pain, but her cries were mixed with moans, and I was possessed with the idea of making her cum just from the pain."

This time he sighed deeply two or three times. The memory was obviously overwhelmingly pleasurable for him. "Her body was red and purple from top to bottom, but she still would not climax. I turned the whip and flipped it upward between her legs so that the snake's tongue could nibble directly on her slit and clit."

He stared out into the room over my head. All expression was gone from his face. There was no smile. There was no laughter. There was no emotion in his voice. "And then she said it. ... She screamed out 'Saint Michael save me!'"

The maniacal laughter overwhelmed him before he could force it back down within himself. It was several minutes before he could again gain control of himself and sit quietly. After a few quiet moments he smiled again at me and said in an almost child-like voice, "She spoke in English. I know she did. She said very clearly and distinctly, 'Saint Michael, save me.'"

He paused and his voice became not much more than a whisper. "I mocked her with her own words." Then he spoke in a mocking, sing-song voice, "'Saint Michael, save me. Saint Michael, save me. Saint Michael, save me.'"

He stopped and suddenly looked around the room as if in terror of what he might see. "That's when he first appeared... or at least that is when he first spoke. He may have been standing there in the darkness for much longer than that, but it was not until he spoke from the darkness behind me that we knew of his presence.

"It was a very pleasant and polite voice. 'Thank you Mr. Summerfield,' he said. 'A single voice may call upon me a thousand times, and I am helpless to act, but when the seventh voice calls my name for the third time on the day of the dead, I am bound to intercede.'"

Marvin sat very quietly with his eyes closed and his head tilted slightly upward. He was seeing something in his memory as he spoke. "He was a very handsome young man... and very polite. He said that since it was now after midnight, it was the day of the dead and he could act to bring vengeance and justice.

"'You must choose,' he said."

"'Choose what?' I replied.

"'Which young woman,' he answered. 'The vengeance I bring is this, you must change places with the one whom you have harmed.' He turned to point at each of us. 'Each of you must choose.'

"'And if we don't?' Harold said defiantly.

"'The choice will be made,' he answered. 'If not by you, then by me.'"

Marvin Summerfield's eyes were now wide and almost pleading. "None of the others would choose. I knew that we were doomed, and thought perhaps I could lessen the intensity of my punishment by my choice. 'Number four,' I said quickly, remembering that she had, at least received pleasure from her pain. The others remained silent.

"After a long silence the polite stranger spoke. 'So it shall be,' he said.

"Suddenly I was against the wall... but I was not me. When he had said, 'change places,' I thought that it would be done to me as I had done to her, but it was more than that. I was her. It was me against that wall, but I was in her body. The entire evening was replayed as if it were some demented movie."

He stared at me with wide open eyes. His face quivered. Again a memory was going through his mind, but this memory he was not savoring. "And then it repeated... again, and again, and again, and again. Seven times I was stripped. Seven times I was fondled. Seven times I was raped. Seven times I was lashed with the snake's tongue. Seven times I was forced to orgasm by my thirst for pain."

His voice had climbed in intensity and pitch as he spoke. His words again dissolved into that hideous, maniacal laughter which had been bubbling under the surface throughout the interview. It seemed to go on for hours until it finally faded into silence.

"And then it was morning," he said flatly. "The others were screaming and holding their heads. Jane ran upstairs screaming and yelling in absolute terror. Harold clutched his chest and fell to the floor. Marie, Frank, and Sharon fell to their knees and began pounding their heads against the floor and screaming until their voices finally failed them."

He was suddenly very calm and looked almost normal as he said to me, "People said I was lucky to have survived."

Then he laughed, not quite so crazily this time, and said, "Jane and Harold were the lucky ones. It was over for them.

"In a way it was also over for Marie, Frank, and Sharon. Their minds were totally gone. They have spent the past four decades basically unaware of their true punishment. Even if they remember as our punishment comes to a close, at least all they must endure is the memory of that night."

He looked at me with pleading eyes. "For me it has been more than a memory. I became her, and when I returned to being me, I had more than the memory of her pain. I brought back into myself her thirst for pain... her need for pain... her addiction to pain which I had released within her that night."

He held out his hands. There were bruises around his wrists. "Sometimes I can go a week before the hunger becomes too great," he said in a shaking voice. "Sometimes it is every night that I must succumb to my addiction. When I can stand it no longer, I order my maid and butler to tie me to that wall and lash me with the snake's tongue until I finally find release."

He wept. These were tears of despair not mania. "I do not want it. I do not desire it. But I need that pain as surely as a heroin addict needs his daily fix."

He snorted, "They have come to enjoy it. Sometimes as I am hanging there afterwards, I can hear them having sex in the darkness behind me."

He drew in a deep breath. "Seven years for each of the six girls. That was my sentence from that terrible angel of vengeance... seven years without release from the hell I, alone, had created."

He paused and smiled again. "I will be released soon. One more year and I will be released. One more year and then you can tell my story. Remember, one more year... but not until then."

He sat back in his chair and became silent. The morose butler appeared by my side and said quietly, "I think it is time that you should leave."

I picked up my cell phone and recorder from the table and followed him to the entrance. As I left the mansion my heart was very heavy. I had more than enough for my interview. It was not recorded, but I have a precise memory. I could write out what was spoken verbatim when I got home... but would I?

What purpose would it serve? No one would ever publish it! No one would ever believe me. And why should they? After all my hopes and expectation, all I had were the delusional ramblings of a sick, old man.

To my editor and others who knew that I was coming here tonight for an interview, I would explain that it had been hard to view the disintegrated shell of what had once been such a powerful and great man. I would tell them that it had been troubling to see what the ravages of age could do to such a brilliant mind. So, out of respect for all that Marvin H. Summerfield had once been, I would tell only of what he had once accomplished, not what he had currently become.

Such a non-interview wouldn't get published either.

As I reached my car, a soft voice spoke from next to me. "You have my permission to tell the story once Marvin is gone. That will be just before next Halloween."

He laughed slightly. It was a chilling laugh, but I could not say why. He continued in a slightly stronger voice. "In fact, I insist that you tell it."

I turned and there was a very handsome young man standing next to me. "And you are?" I said somewhat angrily.

"Names are so unimportant," he replied in his calm, sweet voice. "All that is important is that you release the story."

I replied, "My editor will never publish it."

He laughed again and pushed his finger against the pocket of my coat. For the slightest of moments it looked as if his hand were just skeletal bones pressing against my jacket.

My smart phone chimed, beeped and chirped all at the same time. "I sent you some links," he explained. "Post the story on those sites. They all have contests for Halloween. They will publish it even if your editor will not."

His voice changed. It became higher pitched and almost cold as he said. "In fact, I insist that you publish this story as a warning to others. Remember, you have until the day of the dead next year. If I do not see it on all of those sites, I will return."

"Who are you?" I asked. This time it was not so much a question as a statement of shock and fear.

He smiled at me and said, "My ancient name is "Mictlantecuhtli" or "Mictecacihuatl" if you would rather think of me as a woman. When the invaders stole my people's native tongue, I became known as "Santa Muerte." As he turned and began to walk away, he added, "... but you can call me Michael."

The handsome young man was gone. In his place was a robed figure walking away from me. As he walked, I could see skeletal feet beneath the robe and skeletal hands protruding from the sleeves. He turned again to face me-- if you could call what turned to me a face. An old woman's voice came from the skull within the hood. "Remember, the story must be told before next year's day of the dead."

He... she... it... laughed once again. The image of the open mouth of that skull as it laughed is burned into my memory forever . So are the final words it spoke, "... or you will find out what it means to receive a visit from Saint Michael."

***

That is the true story of what happened at that infamous Halloween party behind the gates of hell at the mansion called The Dungeon of Hedonism. Perhaps I should have warned you at the beginning not to read it aloud... especially not to say the names aloud... most especially not to repeat Mickey-choo-choo or Santa Morty or Saint Michael aloud... and most, most especially not to do so after midnight when Halloween becomes The Day of the Dead.

Who knows? You might be the seventh person to repeat those names on that day. And believe me, you do NOT want a visit from Saint Michael.

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