His sword came down in a strike of stunning complexity.
Each swath of ice threatening to leach my power I blocked, until
finally the blades struck, and mine was shattered through no
fault of mine own; the block was perfect but the sword insufficient.
Baphomet’s grin was terrible to behold.
He held out his hands, inviting the challenge. The power
rushed back through me, and I accepted, locking my fingers with
his, using all my strength in the age-old game. He towered above
me, pushing down, but still I held, and pushed back. His
strength doubled, and doubled again; still I held, and forced
back. I became a statue, exerting all my strength while his
doubled and pressed ever down against me. Then, his height
became in relation to mine, and his cock curved up from his crotch, engorged with blood, to my mouth. To break my
stance would be to be crushed. The head of his phallus pressed
hugely against my lips, rubbing and wettening them. With his
strength ever doubling, I could not help but open my mouth to
breath, allowing the cock entry. Shifts of his body and torso in
attempts to dislodge my stance rubbed the head against my helpless, panting, licking tongue, overwhelming me with the power of
his scent and taste.