The Scarlet Letter
Volume I, Number 2 | October 1993
Waxen Saints
by Fr. Seahorse

It was the first full moon in May of the year 2036, the time of the annual Wesak festival when the planatery Hierarchy would blizzard the mortals with an influx of intelligent energy. The curator of the wax museum didn't give a rat's ass about this, as his intelligence had gotten snowed in years before when, in meditation, he had accidently stumbled into an astral conclave of a certain Great Fraternity. Ooops! Many of his brain cells died, but he was allowed to live. He quit meditating.

With a final whisk of his broom he surveyed once more the exhibit honoring the manifestation of the sixth-root race upon the planet. The Prophet Aleister Crowley stood there, smirking in external wax, the John the Baptist of a race he did not live to see, a Moses with one foot upon the mountain and the other in an opium den.

Next to the Great Beast stood Helena Blavatsky, stern and haughty, the one whose forcasts extended even unto the boundries of the seventh root-race. "She did pretty well for a fifth root-racer," mumbled the aging curator, as he tugged absently at his genitals and shuffled away for the night. He could not know that the energy stimulating his brain and his genitals—neither of which had been active for years—would shatter the veil of the astral this night, but after all—it was Wesak.


* * * * *

"Let's party, toots!" yelled Crowley, swinging a still-lifeless Blavatsky around and around. "It's Wesak!"

The waxen Blavatsky began to tremble, then gave a mighty shudder. She farted.

"I'm awake, Beast," she said. "Put me down."

Crowley dropped her with a downcast expression, his momentary elation vanishing like the waxen dream it was. Every year at this time their souls were ressurrected into wax and he wanted to get laid. And every year, Blavatsky refused.

"Do what thou wilt shall be the whole of the Law," Crowley intoned. "And it is my will to lay thee."

"Nay," said Blavatsky, putting on her best schoolteacher expression. "Behave yourself, or I'll have to paddle you."

Crowley was careful to conceal the glow of pleasure that comment brought him. Although he had always preferred to give flagellation rather than receive it, reception was better than walking away from an encounter empty-handed. He thought of his lover Neuberg, and of how that sweet youth had once strapped him to a steamboat's paddlewheel and whipped him for hours, until Crowley's exhausted lungs could no longer propel his screams of pleasure. Unfortunately Neuberg, addlepated as he was, had forgotten the departure time of the craft and when the paddlewheel began to turn it took both of them by surprise. The Great Beast almost became the Great Fish as a result of that incident. After he dried out, he made Neuberg eat sand.

But that was long ago and Neuberg was probably in some other museum. Crowley was faced with the formidable task of extracting physical pleasure from Helen Blavatsky. "When you have only one path before you, at least you can bring the full focus of your will to bear on it," he mumbled under his breath. "And tonight, my True Will is concentrated in my tool, so let the games begin!" He reached out and grabbed Blavatsky's ancient teat.

Blavatsky, for her part, had been scanning the computer at the sixth root-race exhibit, a habit she had fallen into several Wesaks ago. She found, to her delight, that forty specimens of the first sub-race of the sixth root-race had been documented and that experts surmised that there could be as many as several hundred undocumented cases. "Hot damn!" she chortled. The times are a-changin' ...for the better!"

Then she felt Crowley's urgent hand close with an iron grip around her left breast, and she turned to face the threat. But ...buoyed by the exciting discovery that the sixth-root race had indeed begun to incarnate, she felt herself become ...well, stimulated, by Crowley's milking procedure. She did not immediately relax, but did not attack, either.

Crowley was astonished at her more peaceful attitude. Last Wesak she had bitten his nose off at the first sign of lust. That nose was gone forever, but the puzzled sculptors had made him a new one. He undid her garment, still keeping a wary eye out for her fist. Her voluptuous Victorian teats lay there, like two large, paled waxed apples. Her pert nipples felt like hot erasers on his slithering tongue. It had been almost a century since he had been laid.

Blavatsky stretched forth her hand and crushed Crowley's head against her heaving chest. She felt like a schoolgirl again, and so did Crowley.

"Sticks and stones may break my waxen bones," Crowley drooled, "but whips and chains excite me!"

"I don't care for whips and chains much, dear Aleister. But I do want you inside me!" She threw him against the computer terminal and ripped off his clothes. And an expression of superconscious bliss began to beam from both their faces as their waxen reproductive organs began to melt from the friction and fuse the two saints together ... forever.

The sun rose on a new day, and the parents of the coming race went back to sleep for another year.

* * * * *

The curator found them like that, sprawled across the computer terminal and fused together. He decided to leave them in that position; they were too tightly fused to separate, anyway. Besides, he didn't give a rat's ass...but he did have to wonder, as he gazed across the room at the American Revolution display, why George Washington was smiling.



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