Lyssa past life or past lives

Excerpt: Hot Wife Lyssa’s Confessions #5: Past Life

Past Life

Excerpt from Me Under Glass, Hot Wife Lyssa’s Confessions series #5

 

I am Wun-Kalla. I only remember being Lyssa a little bit. The world around me is much more real than those vague ideas and misty memories of modernity.

My eyes have never seen a person who looks like Lyssa, a pale person. I’m dark, and although I know I’m younger than Lyssa, I also know I’m older. My thirty years have been costlier to this body than Lyssa’s thirty-five, would be costlier if Lyssa was twice as old, even though the nearly-black flesh still seems fit enough. In fact, I’m the oldest of my tribe, and I’m also the healer, the wisest, the shaman and leader.

I’m atop a hillock on a sort of savannah. I see black mountains in the near distance at the edge of the purple, red, and blue field of grass, smoke pouring out of one of them. The sky is contaminated with ash, and the setting sun turns everything a beautiful but dangerous-looking shade of reddish-orange. The world does not look like this anymore, Lyssa thinks, as she fades even farther away from my awareness.

I’ve got a rock, a special rock, and I was doing something to the dead animal in front of me. Wun-Kalla knows the animal is a boonk-ahm, but the trace of Lyssa left has no idea what it is. Some kind of oversized rodent, maybe, about the size of a lion. I was doing something to make the hide into usable leather. I’m confused, trapped between two personalities, two lifetimes of experience, two almost completely incompatible skill sets.

I hear the animal’s mate and I grab my stick. It’s a stick I use to kill things, and I made it, but I don’t understand that very well. It’s a special stick called a chak, even though it’s just a stick. There’s skill in its use that I don’t know in my mind, but that I feel in my hand when it closes on the worn handle-area.

I know how to fight. I know I’m going to have to fight. Soon.

Imminently.

We always have to fight.

It’s not the animal’s mate after all, though. I see them, sneaking closer in the waist-high grass. Another kind of creature Lyssa has no knowledge of, but Wun-Kalla recognizes immediately, nayarlath, with a reaction of almost insane fear crushed down by fighting spirit into resignation. They are shaped like heavily muscled people, but their skin is blacker than the blackest night as if they were holes in reality. They have no features, cast no shadows. They are all male, with cocks made of the same inky blackness as the rest of their forms. They rape and kill and eat my tribesfolk, in whatever order suits their mood, not discriminating between the women and the men. They can’t be communicated with and all they want is our destruction. They are why we are nomads; they are why we move so much, not because of following game. We know how to grow food, and sometimes we can, unless they show up before the harvest, like now.

More of them. The tall grasses between me and the volcano now look to be filled with them as they creep closer; an army of nayarlath, and only me between them and the village. I can’t fight so many. They will kill all of my people if I don’t warn them in time, and I am the only one who can order the move. No one else is respected enough to give that order, even though I know Waia-Kulla will raise her voice against me, as she does every time I issue a command. The men will be slaughtered in their cages, the women and children and uncles in their beds.

The fear threatens to choke me. I turn away from the boonk-ahm and the volcano and the sea of grass full of nayarlath to run home, but when I look down the little hillock, I see they are behind me as well. Encircling me, closing in, but they haven’t finished the circle, yet. They aren’t usually fast, just steady. They can be fast. I run swiftly into the breach in their closing circle, but they don’t hurry.

As I get nearer the end of their gauntlet, they start to move in the same direction I am moving. I run with skill, running in a way that humans were evolved to do, running in a way that the Lyssa part of me finds completely foreign and completely natural and completely unnatural. My lungs take in more air and get more out of the air they take in. My muscles feel exhilarated rather than wearied as they work. The little Lyssa part of me that’s left thinks I must be going 25 miles per hour effortlessly, with a lot more left in the tank should I need it.

I return to my village ahead of the nearest pursuing nayarlath, but when I stop and look behind, I can see them in the distance. It won’t be long. I run to my shelter, a lean-to that is appropriately decorated with the tribal ornamentation befitting the leader. Hanging off the overhanging support pole is The Horn.

I yell in our language, a single word that means a combination of things: danger, trouble, incoming, evacuate, arm yourselves, free the men, prepare to fight, weaklings flee with the children to the next place. We all understand it. We all know our roles. No discussion is needed, because I lead them and I have taught them. Our tribe is the smartest, the wisest, the first true humans with the first true human brains, in spite of our vestigial tail-stumps. The crones always lead, the mothers always protect, the maidens always fight.

Our maidens free the caged men. They all quickly join the uncles, and the few crones and maidens, around me as the mothers gather bundles to take so they can provide for the children. Everyone except the infants and toddlers grab their chak from the side of my lean-to.

They are moving too fast. Far too fast. They will be upon us any second. I shout at the mothers a word that amounts to ‘Go now, forget the rest.’

But it’s too late. We hold our line in the hopes of allowing the mothers and children to flee, but I know before they arrive that it’s too late. The nayarlath move in so quickly that our little village is surrounded on all sides before we have felled the front lines. The mothers couldn’t possibly have had time to escape, but I can’t think of that right now. Nayarlath climb over their dead brethren, heartless, inhuman, and full of death-lust. The crone on my left falls to a stabbing nayarlath arm-tentacle-whip thing, only a moment before the maiden on my left gets mounted by one and brained by another.

I make the mounting nayarlath’s head explode with my mana, directing it through my chak as I butt the other end of it into the crone’s killer. I see men down the line slaying and falling and being mounted by the huge erections of the insubstantial creatures. A quick peek behind me and I see mothers and children…failing to escape.

Can’t think about that now. I wipe a tear from my eye, trying to forget what I just saw, and keep fighting.

And then, soon, I am alone. The last. Surrounded by nayarlath and my dead village.

One of them mounts me from my blind spot, which is directly in the back of my head. No helping that. It hurts, since his ‘manhood’—if one can call it that—is made of void, some kind of negative energy that even the Lyssa part of me can barely wrap her mind around, and has penetrated my anus. It feels like electricity, it burns and is clearly doing damage to my body. It also feels good in a strange way, so I can resist somewhat.

I can take it. I can handle this. Surely someone escaped, we will survive. I keep telling myself that.

I block a swinging nayarlath whip-arm, but there are many around me, and another strikes my temple even as I block the other. I see men and maidens fall. Only a few of us crones are able to fire our life-force through the chak, and those bursts dwindle to none but mine quickly. The caged men are vicious and fight well, but they fall here and there as well. The nayarlath attached to my back, with his long tool painfully drilling my rectum, digs his claws into my throat. I call out to the spirits of wood to imbue my chak as I release more of my mana, my own life-energy, through it to kill another nayarlath, and I am surprised, and then I despair, when nothing happens.

The gods have forsaken us.

I’m knocked to my knees, and after destroying only a few more with the energies I control and the physical stick itself, I’m knocked to my face. The creature atop me expels a destructive, acidic load of his demon seed into my back side. I scream in pain and look up, still struggling.

A large nayarlath, huge and distinct from the faceless horde, appears in my vision as the others step aside to allow him through. He crouches down and looks me in the eye. I feel the demon seed eating away my insides.

His body is just as negative and void as the others, but he has eyes that appear normal. Human.

Derrick’s eyes, the part of me that is Lyssa thinks.

Did he know? Did I know?

The nyarlath-Derrick looks at me. “Sleep now, my love,” he says in modern English that my current body didn’t understand. Wun-Kalla heard demon tongue as the acidic semen continued to eat away at her vital organs. He was saying it to the Lyssa part of me. He kneels and mounts me in missionary position, then lifts me up onto his thighs. I’m powerless and his cock inside me feels like the same blissful death it was when the real Derrick was biting out my throat in my little bathroom shower.

A blow to the back of my head and a new nyarlath-penis entering my ass is the last thing I remember from the dream.

It had to be just a dream. I’m drugged.

Yeah, just a bad dream.

 

photo credit: Sénégal (West Africa) 1967 via photopin (license)

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