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Chaos Magic
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Chaos Magic
by Jay Lygon
Torquere Press
Copyright ©2006 by Jay Lygon
First published in www.torquerepress.com, 2007
NOTICE: This eBook is licensed to the original purchaser
only. Duplication or distribution to any person via email,
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erroneous. This eBook cannot be legally lent or given to
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This eBook is displayed using 100% recycled electrons.
Distributed by Fictionwise.com
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Chaos Magic
by Jay Lygon
CHAPTER 1
Before leaving my apartment that night, I lit bundles of
white sage at the altars of my Gods and offered up a pathetic
plea that unlike every other time Joey and Brett dragged me
out to a club, Marcus wouldn't stop me from meeting
someone. Out there was a man who wanted to dominate a
short, slim, farmboy gone bad. I needed to meet him.
And could the Gods make this dream guy someone who
could easily overpower me in a naked wrestling match? Well
hung, naturally. Don't forget the incredible bod.
My usual approach to sex was like a commando raid. Hit
him up; get it on; get the hell out. Yet as I prayed, I was
overwhelmed by the need for something more. I wanted hot
sex, but craved a deep, spiritual bond. More than anything at
that moment, I wished for a chance at Love.
Then my little lizard brain went right back to basics.
Someone who wouldn't take shit from me. Oh, yeah. A tall,
muscular man with big hands. That fantasy worked, so I
grabbed my dick. Spit, grasp, tug. A guy who could silence
my mouth. Groan. A stern poppa who knew how to keep his
boy under control. A leather-daddy who would tear at my
untamable, black curls while he forced me to swallow his
cock.
I sucked air between my clenched teeth.
A badass sadist who knew Japanese rope bondage. Oh,
fuck!
Something broke free from my soul and shot hard into the
night. For a second, everything was hushed, and then the
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noise of my blood pounding through my veins rushed into my
ears like a thunderclap. I could feel the backdraft of power
wash over my skin.
Raw magic shoved me back on my butt.
It was coming.
I was coming.
I got such a nasty mental picture of my ass reddening
under Mr. Perfect Leather-Daddy's whip that I left an
additional offering in four sticky, white shots across the
Goddess of Traffic's chromed altar. Angelena was a vegan. I
figured the extra protein would do her good.
My 1920s vintage Moroccan fantasy apartment building
was several blocks off Broadway in downtown Long Beach.
Sometimes I could smell the ocean. Three days of rain had
given L.A. the pissy look of a doused Persian cat. Mountain
ranges stood in purplish silhouettes from Malibu to Riverside.
The last orange-red steak of sunlight was a sliver over the
bulky hill of San Pedro. A fog bank hovered over Long Beach
harbor, waiting for nightfall to send tendrils inland like the
Angel of Death creeping through Egypt in the movie Ten
Commandments .
My downstairs neighbor, Angelena, worked on a Ducati
rebuild on the tiny square of lawn outside her first story
apartment door. The tips of Angelena's spiky, asphalt-black
hair showed over the seat of the bike. She smelled of grease
and hot metal.
Neighbors who lived in the apartment two doors down
nodded hello to us as they returned from Christmas shopping.
It amazed me that they could see Angelena, but didn't
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recognize her as a Goddess. Her power seemed so obvious,
but they acted as if they only saw a tall, heavyset, motorcycle
cop.
"Kind of dark to see what you're doing," I said.
Angelena worked her fingers around the engine.
"Sometimes eyes are a hindrance, Sam. Seeing with the inner
eye is more enlightening."
After checking that it was dry, I sat on the bottom step of
the stairs leading up to my door. "What's the history on this
one?" Every bike she rebuilt had a story. I liked to feed her
the straight line and let her ride with it. Sometimes the tale
would ramble on for hours, following the topography of her
thoughts like a two-lane rural highway.
I pulled long blades of grass out of the crack in the
sidewalk and twirled them between my hands.
Angelena rested back on the heels of her thick biker boots.
She wiped grease from her hands with a faded rag. "Aren't
you going dancing with Joey and Brett? Or did you figure your
evening was complete after you shot your wad?"
I gave her my best "aw shucks ma'am" Oklahoma farmboy
apology smile. She wasn't falling for it, so I did my big blue
eyes thing, going for a look somewhere between angelic and
mournful. "I have work. Lots of films screened this week. I
have to submit my reviews to my editors."
Like Brett and Joey, Angelena didn't fall for that either. I
tried another excuse. "Joey and Brett will have more fun
without me. Last time, Brett gave me a pity blowjob by the
dumpsters. They're just being polite."
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