The Ritual Pt. 04: The Red Room

This is part four in 'The Ritual.' You can read parts one, two, and three for the build-up if you haven't done so.

Please note: this chapter contains intense scenes and depictions of graphic sexual acts.

Chapter Four: The Red Room

Creaking loud, the door swings inwards and the red light spills from the apartment confining it, intense and blinding as crimson bathes me in its raw heat.

The man, Damien--who's been toying with me through messages, spurring and pushing towards the occult, towards intimacy, infidelity, is real suddenly. No longer words on a screen, no longer a faceless entity visualized in my mind that pulls me apart, but real and standing before me.

I grip the straps of the backpack against me, filled with my clothes, my keys, the phone, and I swallow, gulping down nervous saliva as I look away from the hand gripping the doorknob, instead, trailing the arm it's attached to with my eyes, going upwards. Halfhearted through the act because the truth is I fear looking into him. What I expect to see is someone--or something--pallid and grotesque, barely human anymore. A man corrupted from conducting and mastering multiple rituals. But what I see is something entirely different. Someone so normal and unassuming you'd think you've walked by this person a million times in Manhattan. The kind of man I've seen lingering outside Deutsche Bank, skimming through Park Avenue, or having lunch in Bryant Park amidst a warm July breeze.

Damien fills the frame of the doorway to 6F, and my breath stalls at the complete sight of him. He's everything I'm not; he is beyond average.

Tall, at least six foot two, his figure looms over me, even while I stand high in Lena's heels. He's a wall of muscle wrapped in a black shirt that clings to his chest and shoulders, forearms toned with prominent veins. All signs pointing to an athletic masculine body from head to toe, a man that could split me apart without any effort. And I gulp again, that same nervous saliva trickling down my throat.

I look at his face: jaw sharp, shadowed with stubble, and his green piercing eyes lock onto me like I'm prey he's been stalking for hours. I can't stop looking at him, mesmerized and perplexed at the same time. His face is so handsome and chiseled, a clean cut looking man maybe in his mid-thirties; this is the type of person I'd expect working in a corporate office, not living here in Bushwick, guiding rituals, breaking people as if this were a pastime hobby.

Seeing me stare, he smirks and steps aside, pressing his back against the open door with a thud, a silent command inviting me to cross the threshold into his apartment, into the ritual, into him. I comply. My heels--Lena's--move on their own, turning from muffled taps against the worn carpet in the sixth floor's hallway to louder clicks as I step onto his hardwood. I'm in the apartment, the line crossed, and I pass by him, merely inches away from his body. Heart beating hard against my chest the further I go in, threatening to fly out. I've only walked a few feet into the apartment when the door shuts behind me with a heavy thud, making me jump at the sound. The lock latches, and I realize I'm sealed inside. Me and Damien--and no one knows I'm here.

My head spins. But I keep moving, heartbeat traveling from its previous spot in my chest to my throat as I clack down the hallway, entering into a larger more open room. I take off my backpack and let it settle on the floor. Before me is a studio, like most you'd see in Brooklyn or anywhere else in New York, but Damien's apartment differs in how it's decorated.

It is a haze of crimson, glowing brighter the deeper I'm inside. I feel as if I'm in a gestating womb, because above me hangs a single bulb, draped in red cloth which casts hellish flesh-like shadows across the walls. As I look around there's sharp sigils with jagged lines in black and gold marking the space everywhere. The light catches them when I move, and their colors shift as if they're dancing along the walls, appearing almost like veins. This is a language I can't read, but I can feel it in my bones, ominous, and it causes me to shake all over. Body telling me to run, that I'm somewhere I shouldn't be, somewhere I don't understand or belong. I take in a breath to try and calm down, but all I smell is incense, hanging thick in the air, sandalwood and something darker too, curling into my lungs as I stand there, my body small and unsteady.

On the wall opposite me facing the mouth of the hallway there's a full-length mirror, and I catch a glimpse of myself in the red room. The tight black dress hugs me and appears even darker here, stockings too are flush against my legs making them appear as if they've been dipped in ink, and the brunette wig frames my painted face gently. I'm soft where Damien's hard, delicate where he's unyielding and I see him in the mirror as he approaches now, coming closer behind me from out the shadows, his boots a slow, deliberate thud. I start shaking. I feel the air shift, charged with him, and I don't remember the last time I was ever this nervous in my whole fucking life.

"You're here," he says from behind, voice low and rough, a growl that vibrates through me. "I thought for a moment you weren't going to come, but then I knew you would."

He circles me, slow, predatory, and I don't move--can't move--my hands clasped tight in front of me, heels rooting me to the spot. His scent hits me when he moves to my front, leather and musk, raw and overwhelming, and I'm hyper-aware of my own body as he inspects me: the lace panties pressing into my skin under the dress, the bra's straps biting my shoulders, the way my shaved legs tremble under his eyes. A feminized slut against his raw masculinity.

He stops behind me, a full circle, close enough that I can feel the heat emanating from his body, breath brushing my neck as he leans in.

"Alexis," he murmurs in my ear, tasting the name, and my knees weaken, a shiver racing down my spine. I'm still Alex. Aren't I? Yet I don't fight back, don't challenge him, I let the name hang in the air, accepting it.

He steps around, facing me again, towering over my slight frame and I tilt my tentative head up to meet his eyes. The contrast between us is dizzying--his bulk, his power, against my fragility, my surrender.

"I see you're good a doing what you're told," he says, a hand lifting to brush the wig's strands from my face. "You look perfect, even better in person."

His fingers are rough, dwarfing my own as they graze my cheek, and I flinch. The touch is electric, a current that lights me up, and I feel the pull of him, undeniable, erotic. I watch as Damien takes his other hand and settles it onto my hip, firm, possessive, thumb pressing into the dress's fabric and the flesh of me beneath, and I gasp, soft and involuntary.

I don't like men, a voice in my head repeats like a mantra. I don't like men. Trying to compartmentalize what's happening to me right now.

Damien steps back, boots thudding, giving me a few more inches to breathe. "Before we start," he begins, still keeping that hand on my hip, anchoring me. "You need to know what this is." His voice hardens, authoritative, and I nod, mute, unable to speak, my lipstick-stained lips parting.

He gestures to the room behind him. The sigils and glyphs adorning surfaces, a low table with candles flickering next to cups, and a circle of what appears to be salt on the floor. His hand sweeps over them all, presenting them to me.

"This is sex magik. A ritual. It's not just fucking--it's transformation. Permanent transformation. I'll take you, claim you, and when I do, you'll renounce who you were. Alex dies tonight. But, Alexis will be born in his place. Forever. You'll feel it, deep, and there's no undoing it once it's done."

The words settle and his eyes bore into mine, searching, his grip tightening on my hip, a pulse of dominance that makes my breath hitch.

"I need you to agree to this. Need to hear it from those pretty little lips of yours, Alexis. Say yes, or walk out now. Back to the life you know. You can run away and pretend none of this ever happened."

My mind reels, the red light pulsing in time with my heart. "Alex dies tonight," repeats in my head. What if this isn't some role-play, what if this is real? The implications of what that means--really means--too big to understand, and my nervousness freezes me with indecision.

Lena's face flickers in the dark, illuminated by candles, her trust, her love, and a pang of guilt stabs at me, sharp and cold. Guilt I thought I had left outside this apartment before stepping in. My decision here tonight affects her too. But I've always known that. Known it ever since I went through with this, from the first messages with Damien to faking an illness to be here tonight.

The memory of her face is faint, buried under the heat of Damien's presence, the weight of his hand tugging at me, the promise in his words. I think of his texts leading me here, that image--fuck--that image. Hard, ready for me, and my body answers before my mind catches up. A flush spreads low, making me half-hard, constricted in black lace. I'm not Alex here, not with him. I'm Alexis, soft and yielding, drawn to his strength like a moth to a flame. Or maybe I'm just telling myself that, shoving away responsibility for my actions.

He looks at me, waiting for an answer. Do I agree to this, to his ritual and all its promise of transformation? Alex won't really die, I am Alex, always will be. The erotic pull drowns the doubts, and I lift my chin, voice trembling but sure. "Yes," I tremble out, "I agree."

The contract signed. His smirk widens, a glint of triumph, and he releases my hip, stepping back, further into the salted circle on the floor.

"Good girl," he says, the words petting at me as a caress and command, making me shiver again, heels wobbling as I follow his gaze. He's pure dominance, a force I can't resist, and I'm his inverted mirror--submissive, fragile, ready to break under him. The air crackles between us, thick with intent, and I know I've crossed a line that there's no coming back from.

The circle of salt glints under the red light, a boundary I step into as Damien gestures me forward into it with him. My heels catch on the hardwood, a faint stutter, and he's there--close, too close--his bulk filling the space, his heat pressing against me as he catches me.

"Stand here," he says, voice a low rumble, and I obey, center of the circle, the air thick with incense and anticipation. My hands tremble at my sides, fingers fidgeting with the tight black dress' hem clinging to me, and Damien's eyes rake over it.

He moves to the low table on the outside of the circle where the candles flicker an odd hue against the red of the room. I watch, as his back is turned towards me, the tight muscles working beneath his shirt, and my breath slows. I can see he's preparing something, but before I get a full glimpse of what exactly it is, he returns to meet me in the circle again.

"We start with the renouncements," he says, stepping behind me, his boots a deliberate thud. "You first give up the old to take the new, Alexis."

His hands find the hem of my dress, fingers brushing my thighs, rough against the stockings' sheer edge and I freeze; what is he doing? He grips the dress and pulls it up--slow, deliberate--exposing my shaved legs in stockings, the lace of the panties, and the bra's delicate straps. The fabric continues sliding over my head, brunette wig shifting slightly until it's completely off my body. He tosses it aside, crumpling it against the wall, leaving me bare but for the lingerie and heels. Air biting at my skin, cool and unforgiving, and I feel small, fragile, dwarfed by him in my exposure.

Moving to the front of me again, he lowers himself, becoming eye level with my stomach. I watch as he reaches into the pocket of his jean's, and pulls out what appears to be a marker. His finger flicks the top off, and it falls onto the floor.

"Stand still," he commands, placing a hand against the skin of my lower back, rough and firm as he reaches out towards my belly with the marker's exposed tip in his other hand.

Pressure from the tip makes me flinch, cold and ticklish, as he begins to draw on my stomach. He places four dots around my bellybutton, one at each axis, similar to the directions of a compass, then connects all four dots into one cohesive circle. Then lines, some straight, others swirling. I look down and see the focus in his eyes, the hair on his scalp, and instinctively I want to run my hand through it, but I don't. I look up instead at the room, my breathing shallow. The feeling of him beneath me, hand against me, the other working my stomach makes me shiver. I can feel my bulge growing, yet he ignores it completely despite being right there. I realize in this moment that I've never had a man touch me quite like this, and why would I?

When he pulls away, content with his work, I look down at the odd markings. It doesn't look like anything discernible to me at all, just a bunch of lines; nothing I've ever seen. When I squint, it resembles a uterus, maybe.

He stands, his height over me again, then he moves away, back towards the low table. I can see what he's doing now more clearly as he works. In front of him there are placed three sticks of various sizes, skewers or something similar. He takes one--the longest--and dips it in a cup filled with liquid, swirling it throughout. I rub at the fresh markings on my stomach, tracing the lines as I watch.

"When we start the renouncements," Damien says without looking at me, "there are rules you have to obey. Do you understand?"

I nod, silently, with his back to me, and he continues.

"First, there are three renouncements. Each renouncement must be spoken three times."

Damien takes the long skewer that had been soaked in the liquid and brings it to the candle sitting on the table, where it promptly lights up.

"You will hold this flame, and blow it out only when you've finished the third renouncement in the set. If the flame goes out before you finish, you must restart from the beginning."

He turns and faces me. "Is that understood?"

I mutter a weak whisper of a "yes."

With the stick enflamed, he brings it over to me, thudding into the salted circle with his heavy black boots.

"Hold it, Alexis," he commands, and I reach out, gripping it in both trembling hands. Pleased, he steps back, adjusting my hands so that the stick remains completely vertical. The wood is wet in my hands, and It spits and splatters oil from the flame atop it that quickly burns at the doused wood.

"First," he says, voice curling around me, "you will renounce your old identity." He moves closer, inches away from me as the flame continues burning on the oiled skewer rapidly, turning the wood black. "Your male ego must be destroyed," he continues, "to become Alexis, you must renounce Alex. Say it, say: 'I renounce being a male, I am not Alex.'"

My throat tightens, Lena's name a whisper in my mind. I am Alex--her Alex--and I hesitate. What does it even mean to renounce being male? To renounce my identity? I can't do this. I won't do this. Strip away who I am, who I've always been, who she loved, for what, curiosity, a porn addiction?

The thoughts flow rapidly in my mind, and I feel my heart pounding, a frantic rhythm as the skewer continues to burn; it's six inches or so quickly dwindling down to five. I think of running--grabbing the dress from the floor, bolting down those chaotic stairs. But Damien's hands settle on my deltoids, heavy, grounding, and he leans in, his breath grazing my ear.

"Say it, Alexis."

A command wrapped in velvet, and the intimacy of it--the way he claims me--floods me with heat. I open my mouth, wanting to tell him I can't do this, but instead I say something else.

"I renounce being a male. I am not Alex," I whisper, voice breaking, soft. I close my eyes, expecting something to happen, but nothing does. I don't feel anything at all, and so It continues, raw and real.

"Again," he commands. Voice louder. And I do it, I say the words again, spilling out of me.

"I renounce being a male. I am not Alex." The skewer now has four inches of fuel remaining.

"Last one, princess. Again."

"I renounce being a male. I am not Alex," I say aloud, and he smiles. "Blow," Damien tells me, and I quickly do so, extinguishing the stick.

Smoke bellows from the nearly half burnt skewer, and he takes it from my hands, throwing it aside. Casting it away as I did with my masculinity as it fades into a dark corner, clattering then going silent.

Yet, I feel the same. I don't feel any less like me at all. I'm still Alex, and I realize the only way through this ritual is to pretend it's exactly that; pretending. It's not real--none of this is. Nothing can hurt me here, I tell myself, and the words of comfort suddenly make this easier to stomach.

With the first renouncement done, Damien moves closer to me, towering, and his fingers move away from the previous spot on my deltoid, down, lower, hooking into the thin waistband of my panties. My breath jerks. Pulse spiking as he begins to tug at them, pulling them down, slowly, as the lace slides over my hips, down my ass, my thighs, pooling at my ankles and releasing my half-hard dick from its lace prison.

He leans down and grabs at the panties as I step out of them, heels wobbling, clacking on the hardwood. Naked now, except for the bra and stockings, completely exposed under his gaze. Damien takes the panties and throws them outside the circle too, feet away from the crumpled dress, away from me.

His eyes darken, a flicker of approval over my smoothness, and he steps back, peeling off his own shirt. Muscles ripple under taut white skin--broad chest with hair, thick arms, a trail of dark hair vanishing into his jeans--and I can't look away, my breath hitching at the raw masculinity of him. He unbuttons the jeans next, slow, deliberate, letting them drop with his boxers, peeling them off while keeping his boots on, and there he is. Not even hard and so big, unyielding, the image from his text made flesh. Dark pubes framing his thick hanging dick. The erotic pull is a tide, drowning my doubts, and I'm torn--terrified, aching, alive. I'm now fully hard, standing there, embarrassed with want.

He ignores my erection, instead turning around and moving back to the low table, back muscles now exposed, his glutes tight, working like a machine as he returns again with a new skewer, aflame but shorter than the previous, only five inches at most.

"Second," he says, stepping closer, his muscular nudity a stark contrast to my trembling femininity, placing the lit wood into my hands. "Renounce your desire for women."

His hand cups my jaw, thumb brushing my red lips, and I flinch, Lena's face surging--her soft curves, her gentle touch. Can I let her go? It's not real, I remind myself.

My mind screams to stop, to cling to her, but Damien's thumb presses harder, insistent, and his other hand cups the exposed flesh of my ass. The feeling makes me ache harder, but I can't renounce women, I've always loved them, not this. But my body betrays me. I'm hard; painfully so. Harder than I ever remember being. My erection, all six inches pointing up to what it desires; him. Remember this isn't real I tell myself again, and I gasp, soft and needy.

"I renounce my desire for women," the words shake but tumble out from me, driven by the intimacy of his touch, the dominance in his stare, his thick cock hanging in front of me.

"Say it again, Alexis, like my good girl."

And I'm shaking all over, the skewer sputtering hot oil onto my hands, a ticking clock. I picture Lena beneath me, the memory of my dick plunging into her, making her moan, round perky breasts heaving with every motion, her round ass smacking against me as I bring her to orgasm. How can I give that up, forever?

"I renounce my desire for women," I say again. Reminding myself once more this isn't real.

"Last one, princess," Damien goads me on. "Say you give up pussy forever."

The memory of Lena is still there, spread on my bedsheets in Bay Ridge, legs plump and splayed open, the wetness between her thighs glistening in the dark. Her grabbing at my tuft of hair--not the wig's long strands--as she pulls me closer to her, feminine scent filling my nostrils, telling me she loves me and to taste her. I open my mouth, but instead of her wet folds on my tongue, something else comes out. My voice.

"I give up pussy forever," I say, and quickly blow out the stick's flame before it extinguishes the inch of fuel remaining.

Damien smiles and takes the skewer as before, throwing it away. I look down at myself, past the drawn sigil, and precum is pooling at the tip of my aching cock. Begging for release, but it doesn't come.

When he goes back to the low table to bring the third and final skewer, he asks me a question, the words coming out as if it's innocuous, and I freeze.

"What was the name of that girl you're with again?" he asks, voice low and rough.

I stand there, the name refusing to leave my mouth. The memories of her a moment ago playing fresh in my head. Why is he asking? He knows, he just wants to hear me say it. It feels wrong to do so while standing like this, feminized, half naked, in the presence of a nude man, but I respond. "Uh... Lena," I whisper.

"What?"

"Lena," I say, louder.

Damien comes back to me in the circle, holding a small enflamed stick, only three inches at the most. He wraps my hands around it again as before. Satisfied, he circles me again, a predator savoring the kill as the wood burns.

"Last renouncement," he says, voice dropping lower, "renounce your love for her--for Lena."

My chest caves, a sob catching in my throat. She appears in the room with us, almost real like an apparition, off in the corner. My Lena; her laugh, her trust, the life we built, the life we've planned. I can't--I won't. Even if this is all fake, how could I say something so awful? My hands clench, nails digging into my palms while gripping the stick that's burning intensely, and I think of her as the apparition morphs towards her curled up in bed, alone, sleeping, while I'm here, bare, naked and hard, breaking.

I open my mouth to refuse, to end this, but Damien's behind me again, moving closer, his chest pressed to my back, body rigid, unlike any woman I've been with, his growing hardness against my plump shaved ass. He's getting bigger, ready for what will come after, as long as I follow his commands, follow his renouncements.

He grabs at my flowing brunette strands and pushes them aside, exposing my neck as his lips brush at the sensitive skin, a slow, steady heat of breath, as his hands slide down my sides, around my waist, possessive, claiming.

"Say it," he growls, "you wouldn't be here if you really loved her, would you?"

Theres truth to his words, I know he's right, but it also feels so fucking wrong. I can feel his cock growing even harder against me, all eight inches, settling against my ass, the heat of his head, thick and heavy at my crack, ready to pry me open. The erotic weight of him--the sheer power--crushes my resistance, and I don't know what is the truth anymore.

"I... I renounce my love."

"For who?" he demands, pushing for more.

"For Lena," I choke out, tears prickling, but the words extracted from my red-painted lips. The skewer burns rapidly.

"Again, all at once," he commands.

And I obey, as the stick burns down to two inches. "I renounce my love for Lena."

Down to one inch left. Damien's voice in my ear, hardness against me, the finality of it, just one more time and it's all over. "Say it, Alexis," he whispers harsh, "she's no good for you anymore, say it with your heart. Believe it."

Oil spits and it burns my hands, fingers trembling as I look at the fast moving flame. It's burning me, flickering at my soul. I close my eyes and she's there--no sound from her, just a blank face sleeping, curled up in her Park Slope apartment, no idea what I'm about to say.

"I renounce my love for Lena." It spills out, raw, hurried, final, and I blow out the skewer, the flame at my fingers.

Then black. I think I'm dead, fearing that it was all true; Alex, me, really gone. I'm in some void now, the ritual's black mass real. But then, I realize my eyes are just closed--bound tight--tears at my eye-lined eyes.

I open them, and the room has turned darker, smoke coiling up from the wood as we stand together in the red-lit circle. He steps back, eyes blazing, and I'm shaking--half naked, vulnerable. The renouncements complete. Real or fake--at what cost?

"Good girl," Damien says, breaking the silence, the praise a spark that ignites something in me again, and I feel it, the shift, the ritual sinking in deeper. My mind's a storm, doubt and guilt swirling, but Damien's masculine presence is a force I can't deny. Pulling me, making me ache. I agreed to this after all, to him, and as he moves closer to take the burnt stick away from me, I'm so fragile but willing, ready to follow into what may come next.

The red light now seems to throb harder, a living pulse in the dim apartment. The womb I'm in heaving. Damien grabs the stick and throws it, casting away my love I renounced for Lena. Still standing before me, his naked body a monument of raw sexuality.

It's silent again, and I don't know what to do, what to say, so I tremble. I'm still hard, stockings down to my knees, bra twisted slightly, heels still rooting me to the floor, and his gaze pins me, dark and ravenous. My skin prickles under it, bare and vulnerable, the air heavy with incense and the musk of him.

"You've done well, Alexis," he says, voice a low growl that coils in my gut. "Now we can rewrite you."

Rewrite me? I panic, legs trembling more violently. He circles me again, muscles moving in unison, boots thudding.

"When you renounced your desire for women, your desire for their pussies, we need to introduce new desires--permanently," he continues. "You're going to learn how to please a man as a woman. And we will seal all these changes in the ritual while you please me. No more Alex, no more pussies, no more Lena--only Alexis, only cock, and only men."

The words hang between us, a challenge, a promise, and my breath catches, shallow and sharp.

Damien steps closer, facing me now, boots thudding softly on the hardwood, and his hand finds the back of my neck, fingers rough against the smooth skin. He looks down, past the drawn sigil on my stomach, further down to my erection, then back up to my eyes.

"You won't be using that anymore," he says assertively, gesturing to my throbbing penis, and I weaken at the knees. "You will never use your dick ever again. That belongs to men, not women, and you're not a man, are you, Alexis?"

I look down at my erect dick, then to him and nod, silent, his hand still on my neck.

"Say it," he tells me, "tell me you agree."

"I agree," I mutter, soft, feminine, as I look up into his piercing eyes.

Smirking, he brushes a strand of hair out of my face. "Good girl," he whispers. "We can begin now."

Pleased, he pulls me in, slow but unyielding, and his lips meet mine. A hard, claiming kiss that steals the air from my lungs. His stubble grazes against my painted mouth, coarse on my red lipstick, and his tongue pushes in, hot and insistent, tasting me like I'm his to devour.

This is nothing like kissing a woman. My mind spins, Lena's soft lips flashing, her gentle kisses filled with love a world away and I tense, guilt flickering, but Damien's grip around the nape of my neck tightens and his other hand slides to my lower back, pressing me into his heat.

I involuntarily let him in, a small moan escaping from my mouth when his eight inch dick brushes mine which seems inferior against him. He takes the opportunity from my parting mouth to go deeper. Tongue invading, possessive and raw. Stretching my mouth wider as his tongue thrusts in, swirling against the inside of my mouth. I can't breath, can't break the kiss even if I tried to, as he pulls me against him harder, going deeper into me. I don't know what to do with my hands, but they find their way to his chest where they settle, fingers against his bodyhair. The feel of the muscles and his coarse hairs stir something deep within me, and he bites at my lips, kisses my neck and I'm panting for breath against him, my head thrown back. Lost in the act. Then he's back in my mouth, tongue deep inside again. Muffling my panting breath, making me feel like a woman, no longer like a man, like Alex.

He releases from my mouth and I gasp, lips wet with his saliva. Damien's eyes glint with hunger for more, and his hand trails up my back and shift to my shoulders, a firm push.

"On your knees, Alexis," he says, voice thick, dripping with command, and I freeze, heart slamming against my ribs.

This is a mistake, you're still Alex, I tell myself. Still a man. This is wrong. A kiss is one thing, but this, what would Lena say? My inner voice screams at me. Lena's trust from within haunts me, her voice, her touch, and I think of bolting once again, grabbing the dress, grabbing my backpack near the door, running from this red-lit abyss.

But Damien's presence is a magnet, his bulk towering over me, and as he pushes at my shoulders the stocking painted legs buckle willingly, heels scraping the floor as I sink. The hardwood bites my knees through the nylon, and I'm eye-level with him now, his dick, thick and heavy, jutting from a nest of dark hair, veins pulsing under taut skin. It's even bigger than I imagined, a blunt force of masculinity, and my mouth goes dry, nerves sparking. I can't do this.

"Are you my good girl?," he says, a growl that vibrates through me, and his hand fists in my wig, tugging the brunette strands. I look up at him when he yanks me backwards. The perspective feels new and wrong. He looks down at me, strong thighs leading to his manhood and heavy balls, pubes trailing up to taut abs, his chest, his face, green eyes glinting red within the light into my own. I don't know why I do it, but I nod and say "yes."

"Then please me like a girl," he urges, dick swinging hard in front of my face.

I look back down, at him, at it. His dick is fucking huge, and I reach out, hesitant, fingers brushing the heat of him, smooth, rigid, alive. I wrap my hand around the base of his cock, barely circling it with my soft touch.

It's the first time I've ever felt someone else like this, felt a man's masculinity besides my own. Oh my god, the feeling makes me ache. I don't know what I'm doing, but I start to stroke him the same way I like to stroke myself, and he responds to the touch, moving closer to me, his balls full and heavy under my wrapped hand.

He doesn't stop moving closer, and my lips part, trembling, as I lean in, the scent of him hitting me. Salt, musk, a primal edge. I look at his pubes framing his approaching cock, and close my eyes, leaning in further until I feel the head of him against my lips. Warm and velvety. I open my mouth, slowly and take it in.

Within the darkness of my closed eyes I feel the head sliding past my lips, stretching me, filling my mouth with his weight. It's overwhelming, just the head of his cock alone, widening my jaw as I slide my tongue under it, the smoothness unlike anything I've ever felt. He pushes in harder and I gag slightly, an audible gulp sound as my eyes water, but his grip steadies me, guiding me deeper and relentless.

"That's it," he grunts, hips twitching, and my jaw feels like it's going to break around his shaft as it pries my mouth open further. I smell him more deeply now, and I open my eyes. His dick is barely halfway in my mouth and I can't go any deeper. I look up at him while his dick is in my mouth and he's enjoying this, his lips twisting into a smirk, hand still fisting my wig.

My hand is still on the base and I find a rhythm, sucking, sliding, tongue tracing the underside, the taste of salt like the circle I'm in and it's intoxicating. My own erection harder than ever, leaking a steady stream of precum, but ignored, a spectator to this act.

The room narrows to this. His low groans, the wet sounds of my mouth, the creak of the floorboards under us. My knees ache, heels digging in, but I keep going, minutes stretching, lost in the act. A man's dick invading my mouth, my smooth hand gripping his shaft, his heavy balls swaying. It's humiliating yet I can't stop.

"Why are you doing this to us?" Lena whispers in my head, faint now, but Damien's fist tightens around my wig, his dick throbbing against my tongue, and the thought fades as he pushes deeper and I gag against him again, drool pooling and gushing out.

"Good girl," he rasps, voice rough with approval, and heat floods me, shame twisting into something else; want, a flicker of it, growing. I work him harder, just like I've seen the girls do it in all the porn I've consumed, the same way Lena would wrap her lips around me. My lips are slick, saliva and drool a waterfall landing on my erect dick below, and his breath hitches, a sound that hooks me deeper. I don't want to please him because he tells me to--I need to, it clicks.

He pulls me off suddenly, a wet pop as I gasp for air, lipstick smeared, chin glistening. I see his dick in front of me, hard and covered in my saliva.

His hands hook under my arms before I can catch my breath, lifting me like I'm nothing, and I stumble, heels clattering as he carries me across the room, his strength effortless against my slight frame. The bed looms, black sheets, rumpled, shoved against the sigil-marked wall, and he drops me onto it, my exposed ass bouncing on the mattress, legs splaying.

Damien climbs over me, the bed sinking with his weight, muscled arms pinning mine to the black sheets, his dick swaying, hard and glistening wet from my mouth, reflecting red within the light. My ass clenches instinctively, a mix of fear and anticipation. Sweat beading on his broad chest, muscles flexing as he positions himself above me.

"Spread," he orders, his face close to mine, and I obey, thighs parting, stockings ripping new runs along the nylon, the air cool against my exposed skin. My ass feels small, tight, unprepared, and I tremble as his hands move from my arms to my hips, gripping, lifting me slightly into missionary position. His big dick brushes me, blunt and hot, nudging my entrance, and I flinch.

You can still run away, he hasn't taken every part of you yet, I tell myself. Lena's face is a dying echo tied to the words.

Damien strokes himself as he looks at me, and he doesn't reach for a condom, won't, and I know why: the ritual, the transformation is sealed with his climax inside me. Raw, unprotected. He told me so on the forums, and I still agreed to it. Agreed to this.

"You're ready," he says, eyes locking onto mine, and I nod, breathless, doubt warring with a rising ache. I want to tell him I'm not ready, as he grabs a bottle and lube squirts out, covering himself with it, turning his dick into a shining rod of masculinity. I want to say wait, I need to think about this as he reaches down and puts some on me too, the sensation cold and wet on my tight hole as his fingers rub against me, and I start spiralling.

My mind is spinning. "What are you doing?" a voice shouts at me. My voice--reason in the midst of chaos, as his fingers work lube all over my tight virginal hole. "You're not gay, you're not into guys. What are you doing, Alex?" There's truth to it, making me realize where I am, on a man's bed, Bushwick, my legs spread open, Damien's hardness about to defile me as he strokes himself. Another voice interjects. "Porn addiction can't make you do this. There's a reason you're here. You want this. You have to keep going, see who you are. What you really are." I don't know which to listen to.

His hands grip my legs and he spreads me wider. I see him place his dick at my hole, his warm head at my most vulnerable spot, and he begins to push against me, slow at first. I look at how many inches are attached to him and I have no idea how this is all going to go inside me. I want to scream stop, but I want to feel it inside me first too, just to see what it's like. The duality breaking me.

Damien's head pushes against my hole harder, trying to breach me, but I won't let him in, desperately resisting, my body doing what I can't articulate. It's my body's last attempt at stopping this from happening, stopping something I may never possibly come back from. But he grunts and pushes harder against me and my hole gives in, yielding to his strength, and it's fire--stretching, burning, a raw invasion that makes me cry out, hands clawing his black sheets.

"Fuck," I gasp, voice high and broken, and he pauses, letting me adjust, his dick a thick, unyielding pressure inside me. My ass grips him, pulsing, and the pain shifts--morphs into something deeper. I look at him and he's barely in me.

He moves again, a slow thrust, more inches and I scream, my arms grabbing at his muscular forearms. He stops. I look down and only two or three inches are in me. I can't do this, but it continues, stopping and pushing until I feel the dark coarse pubes of him against me and I realize he's fully inside me, claiming me, wrapping my legs around him like I'm his cheap whore.

A man's raw dick is inside my ass, he's popped my cherry, and I don't even know how to feel. I'm in pain, but I want more. There's shame swirling with want, fear combining with burning desire.

He slides out then pushes back into me, again, then harder, hips slamming into me, skin slapping skin. The bed groans, the room fills with it--his grunts, my moans, the creak of springs--and I'm lost, split open, alive. My asshole slowly being destroyed by him, pain and pleasure mixing together into a cocktail of intensifying sex.

A moan involuntarily escapes my lips with each thrust matching his rhythm--"ugh, ugh, ugh,"--and the bed creaks along with it.

"Say it," he snarls, hand gripping my throat, not choking, just holding. "Say you'll never fuck a woman again."

The pleasure crashes in, a wave I can't fight, and Lena's gone--burned away. His dick relentless thrusting into me, fucking me.

"I'll never fuck a woman again," I whimper, voice raw, and he pushes deeper, rewarding me, my ass yielding to him completely--no fight or resistance anymore. Accepting its new role, my dick completely limp and flaccid now too. The drawn sigil on my stomach growing slick with sweat as I look down at it.

"Say your cock's useless," he demands, free hand pinning my wrist, the other still on my throat, his dick driving into me, harsh and persistent, hitting a spot that makes me arch off the bed, a scream tearing free from my lipstick stained mouth.

"Ughh--" I yelp, the doubt's dead now--I crave this, crave him, the humiliation fueling the fire.

"My cock's useless," I moan, loud and desperate, and it's true, my body's his, soft, receptive, alive under his weight. I've not only gone completely flaccid, but it's shrunken to only a few inches from the pain my hole is enduring.

This isn't love. It's domination and submission. Him the conquerer, me the conquered. An agreement to seal the ritual. I'm lost in the act, my body in Bushwick being used and abused, mind spinning, guilt silenced.

He slides out of me, then shoves it back into my hole, all the way to the base, his body pummelling into me. Again and again. My whole body shifting with the motion under him, bed moaning with me, springs creaking.

I hear a wail, a baby's cry, and I'm snapped out of the sex, the destruction to my body. It's loud, approaching, and it immediately reminds me of Lena, her want for children, our late night talks about her going off birth control once we get married. But the noise turns into a different sound, and I realize it's a siren--an ambulance, maybe--passing by outside, warning me, and suddenly I realize where I am, and what I'm doing.

I'm on the sixth floor of some dingy building in Bushwick, a man's apartment, there's a world still out there, people are walking by outside while I'm up here on a guys bed, his dick ravaging me. No condom, raw, could be filling me with STDs! The shame if people knew, if everyone found out my dirty little secret, the judgement for cheating on Lena because I wanted this!

Squirming, Damien notices the look on my face and stops thrusting. He sees Alex is still alive, not renounced at all like I said earlier, and his hand wraps around my two wrists tighter, pinning me to the bed. He knows I won't escape even if he released me, knows I'm too weak to stop this because I'm too curious, but he wants to make sure, wants to keep me here and make me see the ritual through. Wants to permanently erase Alex and put Alexis there instead.

He leans in, lips crashing against mine, and slides into me again. It feels wrong, yet good, pain and suffering contrasted with ecstasy. Damien pulls his lips from my mouth, and I part them open, a soft breath escaping me, a sign that I'm still enjoying this, that I want to continue.

"Stick out your tongue," he tells me, and I obey. It lops out, a flat surface, and he leans his face above mine, saliva pooling out his mouth, drooling down onto my exposed tongue. Dominating me, both my holes, as he shoves his tongue back into my mouth, twirling it deeper against mine while he fucks me harder. Crushing whatever last show of resistance I had.

"Mmph," I mutter, his mouth muffling me, trying to let the pleasure escape while he splits me in two.

He pauses, pulling his manhood out of me with a wet sound, leaving me gasping, empty, aching. My ass throbs, stretched and slick, ruined, my mouth wet with his saliva, and I let the whimper out.

Damien's hands grip my hips, flipping me with ease, and I scramble to obey. Lena's heels slip off my feet and over the bed's edge, clattering on the hardwood as I plant my knees on the mattress. I look at them through a gap in my arm, and I see her face; silent, hurt. I freeze, but he pushes me down until my chest is against the mattress, arms trembling, ass thrust high, and the air cools my exposed skin--wet, open, vulnerable.

He moves behind me, a shadow cast in the red light upon the wall we're against, and I feel his gaze, heavy and hot. My ass cheeks part slightly, round and pale, I can tell my hole is framed by the torn stockings and he enjoys the sight. His hands spread my ass cheeks wider, rough palms kneading the flesh, and I moan with a sound I didn't even know I could make.

I look to my side and catch the full-length mirror exposing the unfolding act. I see myself, Alexis not Alex anymore, submissive and feminine, hair long, makeup smeared but there, bent over with her ass thrust high, and I see Damien behind me, a powerhouse of a man, his hands spreading my cheeks, controlling me, dominating me.

His dick brushes against me again, thick, slick, impossibly hard, nudging at my ravaged entrance. I push back instinctively, craving him, craving more of the pain and pleasure, and he chuckles, low and dark. "Eager little slut."

I feel him line up as the head presses once more, and then he thrusts--deep, brutal, splitting me open anew. No pausing this time, no mercy. My ass stretches around him, gripping tight, and the angle's different, sharper, hitting deeper, a jolt that makes me cry out, voice high and broken. Feminine. No longer sounding like me, no longer the voice of a man escaping my lips.

The bed rocks, sheets bunching under my fists, and the sounds fill the room. His masculine grunts, my feminine gasps, the wet slap of his hips against my ass cheeks, flesh jiggling with each impact, the creak of the bed as my face is smushed into the mattress with each devastating thrust.

I've never fucked a woman like this, don't think I was ever capable of doing what he's doing. I think of her, Lena's gone--obliterated. I don't just want this, I crave it, need it. This is a form of sex I've never experienced before, but I'm drawn to it as if a drug. Each thrust feels like it's rewiring me, teaching me new ways to experience pleasure. Ecstasy as a woman, not a male.

"Say it," he snarls, hand wrapping around my neck, yanking my head back. "Say you're mine."

"I'm yours," I moan, loud and raw, voice high, his dick thrusting in and out of me, conquering my asshole as it squelches, and he drives harder, relentless, the friction burning as the lube evaporates.

"What's your name?" he commands.

"Alexis," I respond, a hushed feminine whisper, and he grunts with approval, mouth on mine, filling both my holes again.

His pace quickens, erratic, dick swelling inside me, and I feel the edge--his climax, the ritual's seal. The lube is all gone now, it's just his dick inside me, ripping me apart, turning my once pristine ass into something permanently ruined and wrecked. Agony and elation intense, a burning heat, and a part of me wants it to end, wants to lock in the changes.

"Please," I beg, voice cracking, enthralled, lost in him, "come in me." The words spill out, desperate.

"Is that what you want?"

"Yes," I respond, breathy and aching.

"Repeat the renouncements, Alexis," he says, spurring me on, his breath ragged, hands squeezing my ass cheeks.

His dick drives in, and I say the first: "I renounce my life as Alex." I feel his balls slap against my taint, and I yelp, "I renounce my desire for women."

His thighs push against me like a piston, cock swelling inside me, turning my ass permanently into a pussy.

"What are you waiting for, princess?" He barks, "finish it."

And I do, I let it float from my mouth, his hand gripping at my throat again, head thrown back, I see the image in the mirror, me--a woman being fucked by a man, and I scream it: "I renounce my love for Lena!"

He groans, a primal sound. "Good girl," he snarls, and thrusts once, twice, then stills as I feel him pulse inside me, flooding me with his seed. Grunting.

It's endless, a torrent that fills me, seals me--secures the ritual, and I tremble. His orgasm rips through me, yet my own climax never comes--not important to him, not important to the ritual, my limp dick hangs uselessly between my legs, leaking clear precum as I'm filled.

Damien pushes his weight against me and I fold under him. He's laying on top of me, flush on the bed, the sweat of his chest against my back, throbbing dick still buried deep inside me, continuous twitching. The masculine and the feminine combining. He pulls out slow, a slick drag, and I pant, ass still raised, quivering. Still gaping as he's out of me. I feel like I'm going to cry, emotions flooding me as I can't catch my breath against the mattress.

I can feel it leak out of me, warm and sticky, trickling out, down my inner thighs, pooling on the black sheets beneath my broken body. The red light hums, the sigils glow, and I feel it, or at least think I do. Wet, marked, transformed--his claim still dripping from me as the room spins, electric and quiet save for our ragged breaths.

He raises himself slightly and spreads my cheeks, inspecting his work, and I hear his voice low from behind me. "It's permanent, Alexis," his breathing is harsh. "Welcome to your new life."

He raises a hand, and spanks my ass cheek hard. The sound like a gunshot, the sting biting and making me gasp as the feeling breaks a spell I was under, a trace that I never felt happen.

Noises are suddenly audible from outside in Bushwick. I'm no longer in a secret world. I realize what I just did, the lost track of time, how I got here, where I am, and the feeling of my asshole torn and filled with a strange man's semen is suddenly real. His seed implanted deep in me. Fucking me like a woman he was trying to impregnate. Using my mouth like a toy.

My head is spinning, I look over my shoulder and see him rising to his feet. His deflating cock wet from me and him. The man that just demolished me stands tall, surveying his conquered slut.

I should be happy, I should be pleased my curiosity was satisfied, but the only thought that fills my mind is one of fear, and as the seconds stretch to minutes the words keep repeating in my head as if an infinite loop. Over and over.

What have I just done?

###

I hope you've enjoyed this latest chapter in 'The Ritual!' I know its been a slow build-up, but I thank you all for sticking with the series. As always, I love reading comments and feedback, so please don't hesitate to let me know your thoughts below!