Nochpalliicue looked down at the newborn male, a creature destined to bring nothing but pain and harm, just as all of the progenitors of his kind were destined to do.

Outside the hut on the high desert, plain wind sighed through the cacti and prickly pears.

“Is it fat?” the young Mexica woman said.

Nochpalliicue said, “For this stage of pregnancy, he is fat and big, not like Tizoc.”
“Then get rid of it,” Quiauhxochitl, daughter in law of the chief, said in the imperious tone of a beauty never denied.

She had spent the first year of her marriage laying with many men not of the tribe, and certainly not just her new husband. The young Mexica woman resented Tizoc’s constant waging war, being away from home, and not giving her enough attention. So Quiauhxochitl had screwed a young foot messenger passing through whose name she couldn’t remember, Opochtli, her father in law, her husband’s cousins, and even fat Metztli.

Fat Metztli, who hated and envied Tizoc, was an enthusiastic visitor in the dead of night. Quiauhxochitl loathed and thrilled when his flabby embrace worked its lather, his dirty worm moving inside her, so different from Tizoc’s hard sinews and hard ram-rod. But she let Metztli squirt his fat seed in her night after night.

Until she found herself with child.

A fat baby boy.

If I birth a fat bastard, Tizoc will know; they will all know.

She sought Nochpalliicue, a strange one, whispered about in her strange moods and delights. Nochpalliicue, who took to herself on a dark, haunted, windswept mesa and talked to strange spirits in the night, spirits who taught her what plants could kill a man, induce an early birth, and drive away the coyote.

Nochpalliicue’s fee was variable. Quiauhxochitl had brought turquoise and silver. Nochpalliicue had accepted them; then, sneering Nochpalliicue took Quiauhxochitl in an embrace on that first night.

“I have the solution to your bastard problem, but I want more than mere trinkets,” Nochpalliicue said, locking Quiauhxochitl’s lips in a hard, passionate kiss before forcing salvia bolus down Quiauhxochitl’s throat.

Hot desire and desperation intermingled in their caresses; Nochpalliicue was more forceful than any man grabbing inside Quiauhxochitl’s thighs.

Nochpalliicue’s fingers inserted a suppository of cocoxiuitl and picietl inside Quiauhxochitl’s pussy and said, “This will hurt, my sweet girl, but I will be here for you; we will pray and embrace until the bastard is uprooted. It will hurt, but and I and the spirits of flesh and blood will be here with you.”

A vicious hunger burned in her eyes.

Quiauhxochitl gazed back at Nochpalliicue’s black-and-red-painted face, at her filed teeth, and said, “I understand,” kissing her long and hard as the burning began.

Five days later, Quiauhxochitl’s contractions started, along with a mass of bleeding.

She screamed, delirious from the herbs and pain and days of painful and plentiful orgasms.

The boy, four months early, cried the harsh pitches of the premature in a world of cold and pain.

“Shut it up!” the mother cried, “Shut him up! I do not want to hear that thing squeal.”

Nochpalliicue grinned ear to ear, sharp points of her teeth glinting in the firelight. “What else do I do with my life.” And bit into the babe’s neck, unleashing a torrent of blood, munching greedily, working through thin skin and tiny muscles. The child’s final scream broke like a wisp of a ribbon. Nochpalliicue gnashed until his head fell off.


Jerome almost spilled his seed onto the floor.

Pre-cum slicked his fingertips.

Just. About. There.

Until he interrupted the orgasm and squeezed his asshole shut and hyperventilated.

Greasy black hair plastered to his forehead, he quivered like a bowl of jelly.

Just once more, one more edge, and then I will form the magic embryo within.

Jerome leaned back in his gaming chair, ponderous belly, jellied fat thighs quivering. He breathed in and out using the Taoist grand circuit. He breathed in measured pace to calm the throbbing member.

A collage of his older sister as a young teen flickering across the screen of his computer, cheer practice, with her friends by the pool in bikinis, at the beach.

His older sister, Antonia, always Mom and Dad’s favorite: accomplished student and later lawyer, athletic—varsity soccer and lacrosse player, he thought—and a bombshell. He gazed at her even mocha-colored skin, the perfect lines of her thighs and breasts—big but not saggy huge—that tight waist.

He remembered well his first intense orgasm, stealing Antonia de Cruz y Rodriguez’s satiny pants and blowing a massive load inside of them. Just like he, in a constant thrall, fantasized doing to her.

Fucking puta, I’d give you my big Latin dick; see if your chino husband’s micro-pecker could measure up. Do what Dad really wanted to do when he spoiled that round, bouncy ass of yours.

Jerome stood up and left his room for snacks. Naked from the waist down, he walked through the house to the kitchen. His parents at a party on Embassy Row, he was alone.

In his thoughts, he thought about the one person he had actually fucked; some catboy working as a checkout clerk at a gas station Jerome frequented. The memory was dull, imperfect, only the pleasure of dominating that sorry, squirmy fuck stood out sharp enough to send the tingle of pleasure he needed for the next and final round to work the magic.

But first, food.

Jerome wolfed down handfuls of Cheetos and guzzled Mountain Dew.

As he closed his eyes, a face flashed behind his lids, a young indigenous woman, long, dark, perfectly straight hair, garish face paint, turquoise stuck through her ears and nose, blood dribbling down her chin.

Something happening more and more as of late. Inspired no doubt by his love of Azteca.

He started, then knew what he would use for his next round of stroking.

Upstairs, he Googled, “Native American slut, rough, hard, fucked,” and surfed until he found what he wanted.

His statues of Baphomet, Satan, the great god Pan, the bas reliefs of Mictlantecuhtli, Mictecacihuatl, and Xolotl watched Jerome jerk his meat to some low budget “reality” porn of a big white dick ravishing a native chick.

A four-poster bed in a room decked out in a Southwestern motif starring some mestiza bimbo.

Close enough.

Mr. White Studly popped Ms. Mexica hard enough to be convincing when he knocked off her beaded headband.

Okay, never mind; the Ute-Aztecan peoples didn’t wear beaded headbands, but whatever; she’s got a bod.

Her face wasn’t right, though. It kept flashing to that other face, the primitive savage face glimpsed in flashes behind his eyes.

He got harder, like a 13-year-old who’s first discovered his erection, not like the 34-year-old tub of shit he was.

Impassive, Jerome worked his rod as Mr. White Studly skipped foreplay and used Ms. Mexica’s native girl braids to jam his dick up to her tonsils.

Eyes fixed, intense, lost in the 4K play rape, Jerome worked into a fury; soon, he would have the power the occult Taoist texts promised him. The power of sorcerers and demons. He was at the edge of ejaculating his essence; he breathed in, held, breathed out, held, in slower and slower intervals trying to slow his heart, to direct his chi inside. When the throbbing penis and spasming prostate kicked in, he knew.

It’s coming! It’s coming! It’s almost mine!

His free hand found his contracting perineum and pressed in hard. The ejaculus was redirected inward in a violent painful jerk.

He shit in his chair.

Ms. Mexica screeched in the background; the sound of the blood flowing in his head drowned out the video.

Violent images sprung into his mind, biting soft skin, men eyes wide in fear in vulnerable positions, old women choking foaming at the lips.

This is enlightenment!? Power!?

He waited for the pain to pass.

It didn’t.

It grew, centered in his bladder, as if a soft ball materialized there.

It grew until his guts felt pushed up into his chest.

It grew until it felt like his asshole was turning inside out.

Then he looked down to the bowling ball sized mass growing atop his pubic bone.

Jerome screamed and tried to reach his phone on the night stand. His stomach couldn’t flex; his arms and legs flopped on the ground.

It grew to a basketball.

Jerome screamed, “Why the fuck! Whyyyyyyyyyyyyy!”

The screams stopped when it expanded and compacted intestines jammed against his diaphragm, choking off the air.

Something tore through his bladder, abdomen wall, and skin.

Erupting in a spurt of blood, shit, and maggots.

It stunk up the room worse than the pile of feces on his chair.

Small, fully-formed hands thrust through the opening, followed by flabby arms and a head thick with black greasy locks.

His own face in miniature stared back at him rising out of his fat guts, rising through the clots of blood.

His embryo grew and stood over him inside the hollowed stomach.

As Jerome dropped into the abyss, the embryo reached full size.

His second self, the seed embryo examined itself, feeling the rolls and folds of his pear-shaped corpus, and said one word: “Disgusting.”


Nochpalliicue hated. She hated the endless cold damp cave she was exiled to. She hated men, now her only companions lurking in this place of witch lights, biting serpents, stinging scorpions, and blood-dripping walls.

She had wandered the cave through eons.

A large black man, one of her regular tormentors, had her pinned on the bank of an underground river of blood. Thrusting, thrusting, his cock bleeding because inside, she was hard, dry, and leathery.

He kept saying shit like, “Massa gonna hate dis,” “Fucking white whores,” “Gonna git da whip,” and other incomprehensible drivel.

In this timeless place, she guessed he had mounted her ten days ago.

The black man pressed on, his enormous penis endless in its painful probing.

But here was no fruition because the dead have no pleasure, have no seed.

Then the black man found his rhythm again, belting out a soulful tune of, “Swwwwiiiiiiing low, sweeeeeeet chariIIIIIooooT!”

Great; this fool is going to keep going for another ten days.

She tingled in unbearable waves that descended into all-consuming numbness, only to come again.

And in the caverns of the dead, this was the closest Nochpalliicue came to comfort or pleasure.

When her tribe of Mexica discovered her doings on the high mesa—the many “miscarriages,” sudden deaths, animal attacks, and loss of “manhood”—they had punished her in a way only primitives on the edge of existence could think of.

There, in the full light of day in front of the whole village, she was stripped naked as the women whipped her with knotted cords and cut her with flint knives.

Special attention was paid to her face, breasts, and vulva.

Then the men raped her as she bled out in the dust.

Nochpalliicue thanked Xototl when her eldest brother fucked and choked her until she died.

But it wasn’t Xototl who received her.

The black beast continued in his pointless thrusting until the smell of sulfur penetrated the rank air. He jumped back and screeched, Massa be comin’!” He then slinked away to the further recesses of the cave.

The sulphur smell grew unbearable; Nochpalliicue knew what was coming, and knew it was coming for her. Iron-studded boots clattered on the stone. Savage beasts growled. She knew what she would see when she looked up.

Three figures appeared.

One came close to her, his face ruined from having its eyes plucked out, beckoning to her, “Come, Nochpalliicue; my mistress entreats you. Obizuth has much manslaughter awaiting you above.”
The mistress waited her response, corded arms crossed, red eyes set in a scaly face peering from beneath locks of writhing snakes.

Nochpalliicue sat up on her heels, chest heaving, and smiled. “Yes.”

The eyeless servant nodded back to his mistress and turned back to Nochpalliicue. “And it shall be on this night you will be reborn.”