Mother Night: The Cult of the Scarecrow

by Mr. K. 

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Cults.

Evidently, out of retirement and hunting down a new generation of villains – magical ones – I keep finding myself dealing with cults. These were, essentially, normal people with no powers. They are drawn into the thrall of some alien or some magical being claiming to be a god. They prey on other regular humans. I find them when my magical bells go off, and I stop them. When I can.

I knew that there was a problem that people kept going missing in this one particular town in Ohio. It was always around the time of the county fair. It was always when I felt a certain tribulation in the magic currents that flow through me. I had never been to Ohio. It seemed like it was time.

I wandered around what looked like a regular, rural county fair. Farmers showed off their wares. Women were showing off and selling preserves. There was a pie eating contest. There was soccer game going on, complete with soccer moms and a cheering fandom. I walked around in a t-shirt and jeans, not attracting any attention, I assumed, until it all came to a stop. Literally.

Someone, somewhere, rang one of those triangles that they use to call cowboys together to eat in the old westerns. TINGTINGTING. All of the townspeople stopped. Literally. They froze in their tracks like statues and they stared blankly off into space. I found myself looking around, making sure I was seeing what I was seeing: The people from outside of the town – families, kids, just people – were looking around confused. The townspeople were stock-still.

The townspeople spoke in unison.

“Praise the corn and feed the Straw Man!”

They grabbed us. The townspeople scooped up the visitors. They grabbed whole screaming families and put feedbags over each and every head. As hands grabbed my arms, and the shadow of a feedbag started to close over my head, I called on The Darkness. There was a surge of dark energy, I was Mother Night. I was in my magic-laden black catsuit and I was Mother Night fighting.

I rescued the visitors.

That wasn’t hard. I froze, beat, or knocked out the ones that were grabbing the visitors. They made their ways out. They screamed and ran to their cars, or on foot, out on to the road. There was a mass exodus and this county fair cult had failed.

Now, I was Mother Night, alone against them. I could have flown away, but if fighting me meant that more people could get away, I would be the barrier. That was easy enough.

They fought me. I fought them. I was swarmed by people, and I fought them with a blizzard of martial arts.

I tossed a farmer aside and threw a spell that trapped a group of 4H kids like bugs in amber. The farmer, who was actually wearing overalls, took flight and crashed into four other men. They went down like bowling pins. I kicked a fit-looking man, sending him back across the parking lot. He took down a chain-link fence. I kicked a pastor who was reaching for my hair. He also flew. A whole crowd was suddenly on me, but I was able to get out a hex.

“Darkness! Darkness! Bind!” They were stuck in their tracks.

Someone wrapped me in a bearhug. I could smell his aftershave and the nasty man musk of his chest hair. He went to scoop me up off the ground and slam me, I suppose, but I thrust my arms out using my strength and easily broke his grip. I spun around, saw a strong man young enough to be my son. I punched him in the chest and he also flew. His muscular body was like a rag doll of which a child had grown tired.

“Whore!” I heard from behind me. I heard it, and I sensed someone. I spun around to see an old man. Old enough to be my father. There was a sudden hush that fell over the throng that had been attacking me. They stopped, a certain reverence falling over them. They stepped back and they paid him deference.

They averted their eyes. I heard a women whisper “Look away, honey.”

I heard the people whisper “Father.” He was old. So old. He had that broken, zigzag posture of people whose bodies had given themselves over to time. He looked at me with watery eyes. He smiled.

“We found the proper sacrifice,” he laughed in creaky voice. “We finally found the Whore of the Harvest! She has been delivered to us.”

The old man hit the ground with his cane. He raised it up just a bit, then jammed the tip down into the dirt. I will never be able to describe the power and the pain that surged up through the ground, and through my body. It was a wave that seemed as big as the Earth itself. It felt that way - a shockwave that issued up from the core of the Earth ran it way through me. All the way up me, then back down again. I stiffened as every muscle danced and twisted.

My eyes widened and my mouth pulled itself into a taut curve.

I heard myself groan.

For a moment, the pain came together in my nipples. My breasts throbbed and pulsed as though someone was yanking and pulling on them. A force was squeezing and kneading them.

I heard myself moan. My thick legs shuddered.

Then it all came together between my thighs. It felt like something massive and ancient and evil had take control of my cunt. My hands instinctively dropped down and clutched my sex. I dropped to my knees.

I was Mother Night screaming.

There was a moment of blindness, and all of the pain that my body could absorb flowed from head to toe … then found my vagina, again. My clit leapt and shuddered as though it wanted to rocket from my body, and my vulva, shaking, tremored between my thighs, and burned. It felt as though the lips were being jolted and shaken by a machine.

I screamed. Juice shot of me. It soaked the crotch of my costume and poured out between my fingers.

I heard myself Nggggg as the shocks poured through me.

Everything was hazy and I felt as though I was on a pitching deck. When a fist connected with my face, all I could do was take the pain and pitch to one side. Another hand grabbed my hair, and started to pull me up. A voice said “Wait!” Then there was an avalanche of pain. I knew immediately that a folding chair had come crashing down on my back. Even as my cunt continued to shake and gush, and my leg muscled jumped, my body was rocked by the blow of cartoonish wrestling move. My body arched in agony.

Another chair and another and another came crashing down on me. I could hear myself groan, then cry out. Clearly, they were lining up to beat me with the chairs that had been set up at the soccer game, at the picnic area. Soon, though, several of them grabbed my hair and pulled me up. They took turns crashing fists into my face. Men. It was mostly the men who lined up and punched me with solid fists.

My head would snap this way and that. There would be a blunt blow and my head would rock back with a force that would kill a normal woman. My powers, I was seeing, were neutralized, but my body’s durability had be left. I could tell that they wanted me to endure, but to not be able to fight back.

The pounding of my face slowed. The throbbing remained.

Then it was my hair. The force had me paralyzed and unable to stop them as they carried out some strange ritual with my hair. They made sure someone was always holding, grabbing or pulling my hair. Some wrapped it in coils around their hands, as if taking up slack on a rope. Some dug their hands in against my scalp and formed fists, gathering as much red as they could. Some pulled this way while others pulled that way.

The fair was right next to a cornfield, and they dragged me out there to do this strange tug-of-war.

My hair. For some reason, they were obsessed with grabbing, pulling, and flinging me about by my hair. They used it to pull me to my feet. They worked in groups, making sure everyone had a handful. At one point, they danced me around like a puppet. At another, a group on my left yanked hard, pulling me towards them. They were answered by the men on the right who yanked hard in the other direction. I screamed as I was pulled this way, then that way, they finally hung up in the middle. I screamed in the tension between the two sides.

The whole time they were chanting something about “The Whore Prophesy.” “The redheaded whore!” “The whore will come wearing black!”

And they tortured my hair.

I was Mother Night, being pulled by her hair – being pulled both ways by her hair.

At one point, all of the local law enforcement guys got in on it. Each one grabbed handfuls, crowded closer and closer, pulled harder and harder. They yanked my head back. They yanked it forward.

“Whore! Whore! Whore of the corn!” Just as they chanted that, there was a ripping sound and a scream that emanated from me.

“There we go! There we go!” I heard as I was forced back down to my knees. I heard the men exalt, somewhere behind me. I had no idea what happened over there that got them so excited. All I knew was that thick fingers wedged themselves between my lips, forcing my mouth open.

I gagged.

Powerful hands held my arms behind my back and other powerful hands stuffed something into my mouth. I felt fiber and coils being forced to the back of my throat. I gagged on a clump of my own hair. My hair and something more. It was briny and sticky. It clung to the roof of my mouth. It dribbled down my throat. Some sort of enchanted cum was in my mouth, coated on a clump of my hair, and my consciousness was starting to blur. I was fading. I was paralyzed. Magic, or something, had me paralyzed.

The people they had tried to capture were gone, but they had me.

“Let the ladies have her!” I heard a man yell. Just as they shared the grabbing and pulling of my hair, they shared my body. One scooped me up like child and carried to his buddy.

Another tossed me to another who tossed me to another. They cheered and whooped as my hair painted the air and my long body became a toy. They were joyful. They made a sort of chain, passing my costumed body from one man to another. Soon, though, a woman took control of me.

She was lovely, svelte, and dressed in sneakers, jeans, and mom sweat shirt. She cradled me like a baby, and looked to the woman next to her. She was also a tall, slim mom.

“Go ahead, Carrie!”

The woman sauntered over and clutched my face, cocking my mouth open. My eyes met hers as she spat in my mouth. It was a quick spitting moment, and my open mouth accepted her spit. She let go my face, then slapped me.

Another stepped up, cocked my mouth open, and spat.

Now, my mouth was full of my hair, cum of the husbands, and the spit of their wives.

At one point I was upside down, then right-side-up, then I was prisoner of the wives. The moms had me.

“Here, girls!”

They turned me right-side-up.

Immediately, the powerful and delicate hands of soccer moms vied for position at my throat. One couldn’t quite get me, only getting the hand on the back of my neck. Her long fingers got tangled in my hair. Her buddy, though was able to get past the others and find her place, crushing my windpipe in her hand. I was helpless as the woman grabbed and squeezed and choked until I black out.

I awoke being carried by the men, again.

At one point, a group of them carried me like a trophy. I felt them press up against my ass and my thighs. One clamped hard from behind, cupping my mound from behind. I expected him to start fingering me, but, instead, he just kept my cunt captive. The ones that clutched my breasts from behind, didn’t really spend time kneading them. Whatever power flowed through these townspeople was making my big nipples hard, but my captors used them more as gripping places to keep me in place. To carry me. My breasts, I realized as I absorbed the waves, were swollen. Still, they didn’t bother kneading them and pleasuring themselves. They all seemed to have a need to touch me, carry me, get some piece of me. None stopped long enough to use me as sex toy.

At one point, I rode their shoulders.

At one point, they carried me like a newly-cut Xmas tree.

They carried me like a pasha in a sedan chair.

“Take the whore to church!”

I heard them chant.

“The prophesy said that we take her to the abandoned church.”

“She takes the hay ride now! Take to her to see The Clergy of the Corn!”

I heard the clanking of chains as they dropped me to the ground and took control of my limbs. I felt the cold tightness of chains start to crisscross my body. I felt my wrists joined together and wrapped, wrapped, wrapped in chains. I saw their angry faces and powerful hands as they bound me in chains, lifted me on to a wagon, and then stood back to look at their work. In my costume, beaten, in chains, I was Mother Night captive on a wagon that would be used for autumn hayrides. I waited helplessly as they applauded and cheered.

The old man who captured me with his cane’s powers stepped forward. He smiled, his eyes perusing the curves of my breasts and hips.

“You’re the fine and juicy cunt slut that the prophesy said would come. You are the sacrifice to the Men of the Corn Field. You will bring prosperity, because you are the Prostitute Swathed in Black, and we have conquered you.”

Before I could speak – ask what this prophesy was – he jammed his cane against the dirt, and I blacked out.

They took me. With my mind swimming and my powers blocked, I was helpless to stop them, and the townspeople took me.

I awoke in the bed of a pickup truck.

They crucified me. I was Mother Night crucified.