Bob’s Memoir: 4,000 Years as a Free Demon
26
Battle in the Desert
ONE TIME—I have to tell you about this—I met a man who claimed he ruled the world and I owed him my obeisance. He was, in fact, a powerful chieftain, but he was a little short-sighted. I won his confidence eventually and managed to ask why he felt he ruled the world. He took me to the tallest mountain around and we climbed to the top. It wasn’t even all that tall, but he’d built himself a throne on the top so he could survey his kingdom.
“Look!” he said as he pointed out to the sea. He slowly turned in a complete circle and there was nothing but ocean in every direction. “I rule it all!”
“What about the lands across the sea?” I asked.
“Don’t be ridiculous. There are no lands across the sea. Those who go into the sea and leave our land disappear forever.”
“But how do you explain where I came from?” I asked. It was apparent he hadn’t considered the possibility.
“You rose up out of the land and are therefore my subject,” he said.
“I assure you, there are lands beyond what you see.”
“Then I will raise an army and go conquer them!”
His frame of reference was limited and he raised an army of nearly thirty young men and began training them to go out and conquer the rest of the world. I thought of his thirty soldiers against even one of Caesar’s legions and wished I’d left him with his delusions.
I stayed on his little island for a year or more, getting to know the people and… well, you see there was one woman, Princess Agora, who was especially nice to me. Her skin was a rich deep brown and her eyes black as night. And the king had approved our marriage according to the customs of the land. It distracted him from his ideas of conquest for a while.
“You have ruined me for other men, Bob,” she said as I parted her legs and lapped at her honey with my tongue.
You probably don’t need to hear this, but as a demon, I have the ability to alter my shape in subtle ways, not just in the way of putting on a new body every twenty years or so. When I’m with a woman who is as exciting and receptive as this one, I sometimes lengthen my tongue so that I can thrust it deep inside her. You might assume that being five or six or ten inches inside a woman is a job for the dick. But if you can push your tongue all the way to the end of her pussy, and then curl it back, it will drive her absolutely wild with passion. Agora loved to have me tickle her cervix with the tip of my tongue and went crazy when I tickled her g-spot with it. (We knew about the spot long before a twentieth century doctor gave it his name.)
Oh. Well, if you can’t extend your tongue that far and curl it, just stick with your dick. But I assure you, you will never hear the kind of joy my princess expressed at my ministrations. And then she was still just as happy to have my dick in her.
So, I was there for a year or more and she finally agreed to join me on my adventure and I introduced her to the infinity room.
It was too much for her.
Like her father, the king, she thought the whole world could be seen from the top of their little hill. Her transfer to a completely different world resulted in so much disorientation and panic that she was nearly catatonic. She had no idea how vast the world was. It drove her mad. It was the first and only time I ever possessed a woman without her asking me directly to do so. Indirectly, she asked me. It was words like ‘Make it stop!’ and ‘Help me!’ I took control of her and gave her peace. It was a near thing, though, and I almost lost her when I had my tongue inches deep in her twat and she called out for God instead of me.
“Bob! I mean Bob! Oh, Bob! Love me, Bob!”
She got along fine after that, though she was never again comfortable leaving the infinity room for the natural world. She preferred to stay inside the house with my wives and possessions and not even venture into the great out-of-doors in the infinity room. She was truly agoraphobic.
Well, I bring up this little adventure because every ruler I’ve met is just like Agora’s father, the chieftain of his island. He considers himself to be the most important and powerful man in the world and cannot abide having another challenge his position.
Human rulers all want to rule the world. Caesar shared power with Pompey and Crassus as a triumvirate. Each of them wanted to rule the world and, as a result, needed to get rid of the other two. Caesar went north and west to conquer all of Europe for Rome. He even had me meet him with ships on the coast of Gaul and transport his troops to Britain so he could conquer that as well. Much good it did him. The Britons were a cagey people and did not come out to meet Caesar’s legions after they’d shipwrecked on the shore. I kept a number of men with me to rebuild the ships so they weren’t stranded on the island. Caesar led a legion off to conquer the Britons.
But they didn’t stand and fight like the other foes Caesar had encountered. They led him into the forest and attacked from the sides, disappearing back into the brush. When he finally found a town, Caesar negotiated a truce that called the Britons subjects of Rome. He appointed a governor and we all boarded the restored ships to head back to Rome. The Britons snickered at his back and did away with the governor.
Pompey went the other way and consolidated Rome’s hold on Asia Minor and the near east. He accepted tribute from Egypt’s teenage queen rather than invading the country, and was prepared to push eastward into the Seleucid Empire.
Crassus thought ‘the boys’ were way too reckless and just sat at home governing Rome while Caesar and Pompey competed with each other to see who could conquer the world. In Caesar’s mind, he could complete his conquest of the world by merely defeating Pompey and uniting the two armies. When Crassus died, both made a mad rush back to Italy. Pompey had an edge by getting there first and raised an internal army to defend the city and his territory. Caesar approached from the northeast.
I might have mistakenly goaded Caesar on a bit. He often called me to consult as one of his advisors—one who stayed well away from the political maneuverings of his other advisors and generals. I’d already told Caesar that by his age, Alexander had ruled the world as far as the Indus River and the only reason he didn’t rule Rome was because he considered there to be nothing there of value. It made Caesar insanely angry whenever I mentioned the name of Alexander the Great.
I’m afraid that was what happened at a small river on the Italian frontier. I’d come ashore to meet with the man as one of his advisors. They argued back and forth about what should and should not be done. There was something about a law forbidding taking his troops any farther south. I shook my head at them.
“If Alexander were here, he’d take what soldiers would follow him and march south to take what was his. He sacked Thebes because they rebelled against him. It took only days for the rest of Greece to come to his side.”
Caesar stood up and shook a finger at me.
“The die is cast then,” he said. He left the chamber where we met and, in the morning, took his legions with him and crossed the Rubicon.
And Pompey fled.
I won’t go into the details of all the battles and triumphs. You’ve got a history book, I’m sure. The rest of Caesar’s life was marked by making laws and putting down rebellions. He insisted that his front guard ride on my little ship with him as we pursued Pompey to Egypt, only to find out he was already dead. Caesar was incensed against Ptolemy XIII, who ordered the murder, and had the two men who killed Pompey executed. Caesar liked to deliver his revenge personally. Pompey was given a proper Roman funeral and Caesar negotiated his own treaty with Cleopatra.
He had a weakness for particularly passionate and lubricious females—like Cleopatra.
You probably know all about Caesar’s affair with the Egyptian queen and how Ptolemy XIII, her co-ruler, besieged Alexandria in an attempt to wrest control from his estranged sister-wife. It was during that siege that my own little ship was burned in the harbor where I was delivering some books I’d collected for the library. I’ve already told you about how I rushed to the library to save the books. And the librarians.
Without a ship, I was useless to Caesar, and frankly, I’d had enough of him. When he left Egypt and headed up the Mediterranean coast, I stayed in Egypt where there were many other repositories of books.
Which is when I ran into a very sad and mournful Cleopatra, now ruling with an even younger brother, Ptolemy XIV. That didn’t last long and she managed to get rid of him as well. She then named her infant son from her liaison with Caesar as her co-ruler.
“You’ve known him a long time, Bob. Will he come back to me?” she asked as we dined together in her palace. She was still only in her early twenties and as sleek as the greyhound she kept nearby as a symbol of her near divinity.
“Oh, he’ll return. Anytime there is a hint of rebellion, Caesar will return with an army. But you must know, he is married,” I said.
“He’ll divorce her,” she declared.
“Probably. But I don’t mean the woman who claims to be his wife. I mean he is married to Rome. He will cut down anything and anyone who stands to hurt his Rome and her empire.”
“Are you married, Bob?”
That was an interesting question. Nimia and Penelope were my wives. Josie and Pari were my possessions. But there had been many—dozens?—to whom I had been married and outlived. Then there was my harem—concubines, women who had sneaked into my infinity room before I knew it, priestesses of Troy. Oh, yes. Many women.
“My bride was burned in the harbor the night your brother attacked,” I said.
“Do you want me to give you a new boat?” she asked.
I laughed.
“How would you like me to set you afloat and ride you on the tides of passion?” I asked.
With any other woman, such an abrupt proposition would have been met with outrage. But Cleopatra was a woman of passion, and if she was not with the one she loved, she loved the one she was with.
I want to clarify that. Cleopatra was not a slut. No, when I refer to a woman as a slut, she is one who will simply spread her legs as a part of any relationship. If you are her husband, you are welcome between her legs. If you are her house guard, you are welcome between her legs. If you are her driver, you are welcome between her legs. If you are the man who bakes bread on the corner, you are welcome between her legs. Helen of Troy was a slut. I was the baker on the corner.
Cleopatra was a woman of passion. Her fire lit quickly and burned hot. Once you had struck a spark to her tinder, the flames could consume you. Caesar found that out. Later, Marc Antony discovered the truth of it. I lit the fire but managed only to get singed a little before she was called to Rome to stay at Caesar’s bungalow across the river from the palace.
I’ve heard people make the assumption that Cleopatra, being the Queen of the Nile, was Egyptian, a people who are generally thought to be moderately dark-skinned. But the line of Ptolemy Soter, Alexander’s general, were Greeks and Macedonians. They married Greeks and Macedonians. In fact, Cleo was the first of that lineage who even bothered to learn the Egyptian language, which endeared her to the people. She had pale skin, red hair, and a classic Grecian nose. She might have been carved of ivory, just as My Lady Goddess’s statue on Cyprus. She did not always bare her breasts, but she always wore clothes that could fall off with the slightest breeze.
And thus, when I gently blew across her bosom, the gauzy fabric parted and exposed her shapely breasts, capped with hard rosy points begging to be suckled. I obliged. We were dining, stretched out on carpets and cushions in the Arabian fashion. A simple shove with my foot cleared the table from between us, and we fell together right there on the floor.
“Oh, Bob. I had no idea your scepter was fit to rule the world! Bring it to me and rule the delta of Cleopatra.” She had a poetic way about her.
I would certainly never rule beside Cleopatra. I was certain Caesar would take that as a personal offense. But as a substitute for him, I ruled between Cleo’s legs, and that was a place to be greatly desired. My thick meat parted her delicate, sparsely haired folds and speared her to her depths. Whatever you have read about how desirable Cleopatra was, it was inadequate. Not only was she beautiful with a tight but welcoming pussy for my cock, she was an active participant. She accepted me in the dominant position at first, but when I was not being exuberant enough, she rolled us over and drove that wet snatch down on my cock repeatedly. Between her orgasms and my own, the carpets were soaked. Thinking of her now makes me hard and she’s been dead two thousand years.
Over the next year or so, she escorted me to temples and shrines, and showed me where some of the libraries were that had been untouched in a thousand years. When she received the message that Caesar wanted her to visit Rome, she was gone overnight. I was left on the shore of the Nile with naught but the satchel on my shoulder and the memory of her hot pussy wrapped around my cock.
I set about pillaging the libraries of Egypt.
Not all that comes from the primordial mass is good and kind and honest like Bob. Most is not benign. This is my warning to fledgling magicians not to play around with spells and summonings you don’t understand. This happened to me on my journey from Egypt through Arabia.
Magi, adepts, sorcerers, and even necromancers have always believed they had to know the name of a demon to summon it. They scoured books (like those I carried in my satchel library) for names of demons and the rituals that would conjure them. And as time went on, they began to find names. Amazingly, the names were always in the language the mage spoke. Imagine that!
I believe ninety percent of the known names for demons came from fiction authors and playwrights. And they made them up. And if they were especially imaginative, they described the character of the demon and what he looked like. Often in terms that didn’t make literal sense, so it was open to interpretation. The demon Trogladach, for example, has a thick impenetrable skull and wields a club the size of a man. He has fiery eyes and legs like tree-trunks. The mention of his name terrifies his victims who quake in fear at him and fall beneath the blows of his mighty club. Uh… that’s not a real name, by the way.
The thing is that when a competent mage or a sorcerer with natural ability attempts to conjure that demon, Behold! he appears. And he is exactly like the mage imagined him. This is because demons emerge from the primordial mass upon their first successful conjuration, just the way they were imagined.
Undoubtedly, you have seen pictures of djinn, or genies, arising from a bottle or out of a lamp. Ever notice how their lower half is wispy smoke or a whirlwind with no details? It isn’t a native characteristic of demons to have no lower extremities. It’s the limited imagination of the conjurers. And after a while, it became the accepted way to imagine a genie. The summoning mage didn’t think of anything below the waist. Eyes and face are generally nicely detailed. Arms show detail only to the extent the mage wanted a djinn that was strong. Even hair was covered by a turban.
Eventually, those images became ingrained. That was what a djinn was supposed to look like. Therefore, that was the image in mind when it was summoned.
Now Pinaruti, for an inept adept, had an excellent imagination and not a little artistic inclination. As I went through all the scrolls and papers in his magic room, I discovered he had been drawing pictures of demons and gods from the time he was first sent to the fields to watch sheep. They evolved over time, but he was obsessed with supernatural beings. And that obsession boiled down to one specific form in his later years. The face, though tinted slightly red, was firm and quite handsome. Black hair flowed from the head around two curled horns and down to the shoulders. The shoulders were broad and muscular, the arms looking like the silent guards of the king.
And he did not stop at the waist. In spite of him never drawing a stitch of clothing for his demon, he worked hard on the details below the waist. I’d say he was a little obsessed with male genitalia. There were pages devoted to drawings of the phallus—so much so that I wondered if he were fantasizing about himself or the one he wanted to take him. And then, there were the legs. Pinaruti had spent a lot of time around sheep and goats. There were even sketches of the animals among his early drawings. The legs were an elegant transition from manly thighs to powerful goat legs and hooves. I never had the least problem standing or walking or running because he had rendered those parts so well.
This image was clearly in his mind when he conjured me. He was simply so surprised his spell worked that his heart seized up and he quit this mortal life. I could not complain about the body he had given me, nor did any of the women who had seen it. And I believe I used it well—even when I had to adopt a different outer shell for the sake of getting along in the human world.
I had met some other conjurers over the past two millennia, but had always kept my nature well concealed from them. So, imagine my surprise when I was confronted by a powerful sorcerer out in the midst of the Sinai desert. And he was angry with me! I didn’t even know him.
“Demon! You have stolen the books of magic from the great repositories of the world. I demand you give them back! I shall consign you to the flames of hell and take from you all you possess!” the sorcerer declared.
“Kind sir, you mistake me. Any book in my possession was either rescued from destruction or is but a copy of what was before. If you will tell me what book you are interested in, I’ll see if I can copy it for you.”
“Don’t be clever with me, demon. I was in the great library when the harbor fire caught it. I saw you plundering the library and all the librarians with it. I could tell you were a mighty demon and I ran from the library with the scroll I was reading. I have hidden myself for ten years as I read and studied from that one scroll. And now I have found you and demand you return what is not yours,” he shouted.
“With all due respect, it’s not yours either. I rescued it from the fire. I did not steal it,” I protested. “If you take it from me, it is you who are the thief.”
“Is that your answer? Then I shall do combat with you. When you are dead, you will yield up your secrets.”
“That’s not really the way it works, you know. If you truly kill me, I’ll evaporate and there will be no body for you to read the memories of.” I didn’t like the idea at all. There were nearly a million souls in my bag and destroying me would destroy the enchantment as well. I was not going to let him harm my people. I reached into the bag and withdrew the sword of Odysseus, forged by Hephaestus and enchanted by Athena, Goddess of War.
The mage began chanting. I was trying to be fair and not attack unless he attacked me. I should have cut him down immediately. His chant took shape in front of me. He had summoned a very large and very powerful demon to do battle with me. Smart move. The only swordsman I had ever met who might have defeated me while I was wielding the sword of Odysseus was Alexander. I had used it to slay the Scylla. But this demon in front of me was armored and strong and angry. I could see he wore a chain and detected the link to his master. This was not a free demon. This was a demon bound to a magus and forced to do his will. The anger was not directed at me specifically, but filled him in such a way that it would destroy anything in its path.
And he attacked.
I barely missed losing my head with the first swing of his axe. I ducked and dove and ran. Occasionally, I got a strike in or stabbed at some sensitive part. It only served to make it angrier. And the battle went on and on.
I tried to talk to the demon in front of me, but I’m not sure he understood language at all. He seemed to be directed by the continued chanting of the magus. I was fading. He seemed to have a boundless supply of energy and strength. In that, he reminded me of Achilles at Troy. I made a desperate stab at his heel, but narrowly missed the next swing of his mighty axe. I had lost all pretense of keeping my human form. I was fully the ram-horned demon of Pinaruti, swelling to a size that might intimidate a lesser being. But not the unnamed demon before me. I tripped over the satchel I’d dropped on the ground and the monster spotted it. He focused his next blow on the satchel and I snatched it away as he buried his axe in the ground where it had lain.
“Athena, for the sake of Odysseus, bless and defend me,” I whispered as I struggled to my feet.
Deus ex machina. It was a term we used in the theatre that meant, ‘Saved by the gods.’ Literally, it was ‘god in a machine.’ It came into being during the production of Euripides’ Medea. I was still in Athens at the time, acting in the chorus. In the play, Medea had just killed King Creon and his daughter. She taunts Jason (the one of golden fleece and Argonauts fame) from the window of her house, telling him she has killed their children, too. The house is set afire as Jason swears he’ll kill her, but just then, a chariot of the gods flies in and Medea is borne off stage. God in a machine—with a huge number of levers and pulleys involved.
I digress.
I felt new strength flow into me. The sword of Odysseus glowed. A voice whispered in my ear, “Sever the chain that binds him.”
What? Sever the chain and set the brute free in the world? No one would be safe! But as his axe swung near me and took a chip out of one of my horns, I dove and rolled between its legs. I could see the metaphysical chain that bound the monster to its master and swung the sword with all my might.
The jolt it gave me as it bit into the psychic link stunned my arms. I went completely numb and thought I’d breathed my last. I saw the sword burst into flame and disintegrate in my hands as it bit through the link that bound master and slave.
The monster froze for a moment, roaring at the sky before it turned toward its still-chanting master and advanced. I saw a terrified look in the mage’s eye just before the monster sliced him in half and devoured him.
There was a shimmer in the air as the liberated demon turned once again toward me. Its presence, however, had been maintained only by the chanting of the master. Before it could advance on me, it turned to vapor and dust and was gone.
So also, were Athena and the Sword of Odysseus gone.
“You are no longer linked to me, demon,” I heard her voice whisper. “The sword is gone as Odysseus is gone. Do not call on me again.”
And then I was alone in the desert.
In the twentieth and twenty-first centuries, when I became familiar with movies and special effects, I’ve often thought that the epic battle in the desert would be a great scene in a movie—perhaps one that traced the life and adventures of the Sword of Odysseus. It would be the final scene as the hero turns away from the place of the battle and goes to join the lover he has protected at the cost of the legendary blade.
Which is what I did. As soon as I could find a fairly secure place on Mount Sinai, I crawled into my satchel and spent several days loving my women and recouping my senses. I came up with a new body, patterned after one of the men in the infinity room, and returned to my journey—not sure exactly where I was or where I was going.
“You see sand. You need to trust me on this, Bob. I see oil. Imagine all this land planted in olive trees, bearing fruit to be pressed into oil. Barrels of oil. It is in the ground and we harvest it from the trees. Enough oil to light all the lamps in the world. And it is ours.”
I looked at the fellow I’d come across in the middle of the desert. It took me a bit to recover from my ordeal, and as I wandered deep into Arabia, I’d come across an oasis with colorful tents and banners, as if it were advertising its presence. As I approached the gaily colored encampment, a kid ran up to me, offering me a ride on a camel. A man offered me a ride on his wife. Three people tried to feed me roasted meat on a stick, honey cakes, and cold soup. The place was as noisy as the market in Alexandria. All the while, I was being conducted to the center tent and I had to wonder what kind of powerful sheikh I would meet there.
I met Doug. That wasn’t actually his name, but why bother making up another hard to pronounce Arabian name? You’d just forget it anyway. He was happy, as long as he could call me Bob. Sure.
“But it’s going to take time and money to develop this paradise, Bob. And that’s why I’m offering you this once in a lifetime opportunity to get in on the ground floor. I want you, Bob, to become my partner and my agent. I can tell, you are a man who has connections. You can visit a king and sell him on the idea. And it’s so simple, it’s genius!”
“What are you talking about, Doug?”
“I want you to buy one share of the future. Now, you might think this will cost you a king’s ransom, but I tell you, today only, I can give you a deal that you will not believe. How much do you think this desert paradise is worth, Bob? Five silver talents? Ten? Wait, let me sweeten the deal. Did you see that fine camel standing by the tent when you arrived? It’s yours! Now, what do you think? Eleven talents? Fifteen? How about this. We’ll include a tent of your own and five beautiful virgins to start your harem. What do you think? Twenty talents? I have a surprise for you, Bob. But first let’s have a little dinner and entertainment. Wine!”
He was slick. He paraded women dancing in front of me, two feeding me, another massaging my shoulders and another holding my wine glass. I could see that just a share of the operation here in the oasis might be worth twenty-five talents. I liked Doug! And I liked the dancing girl who was bouncing on my cock.
“Now let me lay my cards on the table, Bob. I can offer you this one-time deal for not twenty talents. Not ten talents. Not five talents. But for one silver talent. You heard me right. One silver talent.”
“How can you offer all this for one talent of silver, Doug? What’s the catch?” To be fair, that wasn’t cheap. If you were comparing it to the value of silver today, you’d be talking about $10,000-$15,000. A talent of silver was around fifty-five pounds.
“You’re probably asking yourself, ‘How can Doug offer all this for one talent? There must be a catch.’ I’ll tell you.” Apparently, he hadn’t heard me ask that question. “You are the catch. I can tell you are enthusiastic about this dream, so I’m going to tell you to go out and sell the dream to two other people. But you don’t sell it for one silver talent; you sell it for two. When you sell a share for two talents, you keep one and send one to me. I send the buyer a certificate for his share. This is the beauty, Bob. When you sell two shares, you’ll have doubled your investment talents from one to two. Not only that, but you still own your share, which now has a market value of two talents.”
“Sounds like mathematics,” I said. The wine was really good. So was the naked beauty sitting in my lap.
“When you sell a share, it’s important that you sell the concept, Bob. Have you seen the pyramids at Giza? You will be sitting at the top of the pyramid. Your two new shareholders need to go out and sell to two more investors each. Only, wait. They don’t sell a share for two talents. They sell the shares for four talents. They keep two talents and double their investment. They send you two talents and you quadruple your investment, sending me just one talent of silver per share to generate the ownership certificate. Not only that, but you still have your original share which is now worth four talents, not just one. What do you think of the deal now, Bob?”
I thought the deal was pretty good, just like the talented pussy milking my cock was. He really sold the deal. I gave him a talent for my share.
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